Posts tagged ‘garden’

17/11/2012

A Last Rose

 

The circling point of dark distils

Around a single opening flower.

Its petals touch the edge of night,

A fragile archway through the stars.

 

This moment in its simple pain:

A pointless mark, a questioned breath,

A finger tracing ‘round a rose,

Then pointing off towards the skies.

 

And in the mind the scent of springs:

From way before the start of time,

The buds unfurled before the words,

The roses bloomed before the end.

 

Around the hand the petals fall,

As memories lose their ties to Earth.

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14/11/2012

The Garden of the House of Pindar

 

Within the wall a redstart crouched.

It cocked its head, it stretched its wing.

This place would do: it settled in

To pass the night alone and cold.

 

Around the garden torches spat,

At moths unused to earthly moons.

To lunar flames they offered gifts.

The goddess, grateful, took their wings.

 

The garden bloomed as every year.

Its evening peace and perfumes seeped,

Beyond the walls with sleeping birds,

Across the jumbled piles of rock,

 

And on it spread above the bones,

And through the wrecks and shells of homes.

14/11/2012

On Hedges and Lawns

 

I’ve struggled through this thicket hedge,

Its brambles bleed my grasping fists.

Then once again I’m looking round

And facing yet another lawn.

 

A thousand houses all the same:

I’ve lost the dream to see them all,

For what they once held out for me.

I see them all as dust and loss.

 

The lawns are free of weeds and moss

Those hours of hope and joy they took.

Their mystery stands: what led to this?

How empty had that world become?

 

I push on through the next thick hedge,

Abandoned up to prayers and fears.

04/11/2012

The Garden

 

The garden stretched out in the dark,

To olive groves as old as air,

To pines in which the nightjars whirled,

And clapped their wings attracting mates.

 

The garden kept its boundaries vague:

It ended, but it never ceased.

The smell of earth and growth the same,

No matter how the planet turned.

 

The garden had an ancient name,

And older still its crumbling walls.

The nightingales could tell its tales,

Instead they chose to lure the moon.

 

The garden drew us back to muse

On how we’d lived, and how we’d tried.