the girl runs from house to garden
from garden to house and back again
thinking only of running
thinking only of the garden and the house
this house, this garden
the breeze and the sunlight pooled on the grass
and the swaying of the poplar trees
she has no memory of any other place
or time
the delusions of the world unravelled
unspun they slipped away
this world complete enough
blackbird below in the garden
after the fallen rain
turns his ear to the ground
listens,
poised, focused
strikes
me, up here in the window,
watching, looking, searching,
seeing, focused
writes
a loom stands in the corner
the work left incomplete
slippers beside the fire, grown cold
missing the warmth of her feet
this place is full of cobwebs and dust
a broom leans by the wall, forgotten
an emerald bowl holds trinkets, jumbled
does anyone live here at all?
the garden is wild and overgrown
the birds, left unfed, have all flown away
the pool by the fountain is empty and dry
where children used to play
the faeries who hid away in the rain
will return with the nightingale
A rose by the chair
In the overgrown garden
I know they were there
Good evening
The day of death comes when it comes
that’s the sum and the wonder of it,
it teaches us how we should live.
If I find the wait for departure
too gruelling, or late,
I won’t stand about on that grey platform
in the cold, without a companion,
huddled up in a worn out old coat,
my collar turned up and shivering.
So tiresome!
When all is prepared, right and ready
I will die with delight
on a bright moonlit night,
clear stars filling the sky,
I will hold up my soul
to the moonlight above.
I will tell the world
how much I have loved it,
give thanks, state my intention.
strip off the old coat
and accept the warmth
that comes with the cold
in a garden at night
very old.
The rest will be history
written by others
if written at all
in a never ending story
Secret rooms, hidden behind walls,
books, red cushions and a chair,
visited in dreams, well known.
Narrowed passageways and stairs
climb above the twisted chimney stacks.
They rise like curling smoke, a spiral.
Doors that open inward lead out to
the dove cote, fountain, walls of mossy stone,
pathways, apple trees and pears.
At last I leave this house.
Beyond the gate
the island, slate and jagged rocks,
a swaying broken bridge in sighing wind,
a fragile home of glass and salted timber.
High tides beat against it, retreating in a spray.
A window cracks. I am not afraid.
The lighthouse calls out through the fog,
receding echoes that return again,
a sound that swings around the bay.
In dreams, when I am swept away,
the waiting house remains.
The Dreaming Path 