I opened the gate
on a garden of stones
at a house on the edge of the world
surrounded by love
and the darkness of night
the uncomplicated attention
of quiet things
Tag: garden
garden
there is no sorrow in my garden
only life and death
wild roses
wild roses grew on the border
but pretty soon after died
I moved into the Albany
and sat up every night
there is a window on the soul
if we have a soul at all
there is a phone here by the bed
but I never make a call
there is a wind and there is a wood
and there is a darkening way
there is a phone here by the bed
but I wouldn’t know what to say
from a room here at the Albany
and a window on the soul
I love a quiet garden
where wild roses grow
no one has an answer
no one has a key
wild roses on the border
no longer bloom for me
only at dusk
the garden slopes down
towards the brook
and the little wooden bridge
to the summerhouse
where at dusk they met
and found acceptance
only at dusk
before supper
a hand of cards
turning in
at dusk
they found their
gradient
there all that time
but obvious
only in the half light
rubble
after it was finished
they planted a garden
on the rubble
that’s what you do with rubble
plant a garden
grail
in the old days
I used to heal life’s little ills
by imagining a secluded garden
where I took restorative waters
from an old brass cup
these days
I’m at the Chelsea Flower Show
drinking from a golden chalice
Last call
For the remainder of the day, everyone sat in silence
not quite believing what they had heard,
and later, as they made their way to the summerhouse,
I waited my turn in the Japanese garden.
The gong was sounding for supper, I remember,
as I made my last call.
The cherry blossom looks so strange in the twilight,
don’t you think – almost ghostly.
