Garden Scene
A Poem on a Morning in the Garden
It is the morning.
Birdsong floating and rising above,
Allowing me a moment of music, before
Feigned silence takes hold, and the Orchestra
Disperses.
Wind sees them off.
Rustling leaves and swaying
Branches make a calmer,
Peaceful moment.
A cracked wall, dusty-red,
A reflection of the sunrise I woke to
About an hour ago now,
Runs alongside me,
A single rose observes as
I do, the watercolor sky,
With sketches of charcoal that tell us
Rain will come.
And that familiar smell,
Petrichor,
That tells us it has been
While we slept.
The aged metal watering-can
In the corner by the shed
Is illustrated by more than
Morning dew.
Shadows play, dictated
By clouds,
The cool shade giving
Meaning to the light,
A sanctity of warmth amongst the
Chill.
Among these shadows,
Butterflies draw hazy lines
Across flowerbeds and short,
Stooping apple-trees.
A dash of colour to the
Canvas.
Here and there
the woodsmoke drifts across me,
From over the fence behind the
Pile of now-damp firewood,
A darker brown after the night.
The sun dips behind a roaming cloud,
A silhouette flies above and below me,
As I reach the tumbledown shed.
A knot-hole gives a teasing glimpse
Into the semi-darkness,
The cobwebs and stacked plant-pots
Seem almost inviting,
An insinuated secret, not quite
Whole.
I turn on the edge of
A bed of wilting flowers,
And look back towards where
I was.
Memories play before me,
Like butterflies,
Or the drifting of the smoke or the
Clouds.
It is the morning,
And the birdsong starts again.
About the Creator
Samuel Allen
Writer and proud nerd. Dungeon Master with a novel on the way. Twitter @samuelcsallen99 for more of my nerdy rubbish.
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