The Man In The Garden
Poem By Elaine Sept
I wish I could have been in the Garden,
Where first you groomed those tender rows of rhyme,
When the Sculptor, the Doctor, the Poet,
Planted seeds ripe for the marking of time.
Age of ruin sown just beneath the free surface,
Amid the sunshine, both shadows and light.
The damp cold earth composting troubles rooted,
Whispers of White Ships, Pilgrim Roads and of plight.
Could I but travel in primordial moments,
Marvel in song that lingers still amid those trees,
Ponder breaths of whispered creation,
Lean with the birch against a salty breeze.
This clay, once miry, has now hardened,
Crazing has harshly altered its textured grace,
Yet, each fine vessel is uniquely crafted,
To harbour love within its living vase.
Yesterday may steal some light within us,
But shadowed facades the sun exposes just like scars,
Pooling rain bridging sojourns together…
Love is a surge on our way to the stars.