The Garden

There is a garden for the faded things

(this is where all wistful thinking springs)

And the longer I live, the greater it grows -

How well I know now, it's where every moment goes.

*

I watch a bruised day's light, aching, recede

Seeing all scenes sink, as fallen seed

to sleep beyond time in imaginary beds

lying in wait in the lost corners of our heads.

*

Someday, I vow, I shall reap from that field

And lavish in untold warm, full yield;

Til then I've but hope, and a cold morn's rise

to harvest as these buried memories' prize.