E. Best: lyrics | fictions | episodes
and there were many buildings and temples
and who is to say which is false and which true
so I kept going along the old coast road
in the hope that I may find a way through
for once more would I visit my father’s garden
and stand among the olives and the vines
even though I am old and weary
what is his is surely mine
so I keep going
where there are many paths down to the sea
for along this old coast road
there is one
that may be recognised by me
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
you were born on a beautiful spring morning
in the shadow of the mountain side
although it could have been any time of year
and in quite another clime
now it all floods back on you
just where you are truly from
returning like the long lost lover
upon taking a walk in the sun
all upon a bright spring morning
as into your garden you are come
life is but a single moment
taking a walk in the sun
there is no sorrow in my garden
only life and death
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
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
after it was finished
they planted a garden
on the rubble
that’s what you do with rubble
plant a garden
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
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.
I have sat long at the lattice
in vain in vain I know
and I have sat long by the window
where only the lonely go
in the secret heart of the garden
where gentle waters flow
I have sat long at the lattice
ever in vain I know
and ever in vain shall I sit
in love with the fiery rose
until the darkness overwhelms
and to rest I finally go
