The Secret Garden.

The door was hidden behind
some evergrowing ivy.
When opened I saw a garden inside.
Fallen trees corrupted the ground and
cobwebs covered the area like a broken cage.
A Little table stood in the middle
surrounded by iron cast chairs.
Remains of a picnic were seen on the table,
a teapot and some silverware.

Little blossoms could be seen here and there.
A bird nest of swallows lay in the nearest tree.
Branches of all sizes lay strewn on the ground.
In there you could hardly hear a sound.

So this is the secret garden that I have heard
of so many times.
The place that was kept hidden and left to decay.
The place of happier times and of lost days.
The place where they used to play.

For in the echoes I could hear the screams of laughter.
I could hear the birds sing.
I could the wind softly whistling through.
I could hear the chattering of small bits of conversation from days gone by.

A soft ray of sunshine reminded me.
That this place could shine again.
With a little help it could come back to its former
glory,
and then complete its story.

Verse: Sandra Kavanagh (c) .

by Sandra Kavanagh Josefsson

Comments (1)

As a reader I see the social reality of expression here in the poem and likes.