The Garden 

It is old and scarred and tired.

It searches through cynical refuse, afterbirth of a thousand forgotten maybies.

The wind howls laughter of promises, whipping dry, empty eyes that seek only The Garden.

Stumbling through the wreckage of things not meant to be;

A comet held on a moonlit beach,

The pitter of little shoes shod on little feet,

The peppered sunshine of Southern wine.

As serenity escapes on the wind through desperate fingers it whispers a message –

The Garden isn’t to be found, it can only be built by me.

Advertisements

Published by

James

Easing into my mid 30's, writing just crept up on me. I had to put something out there - no matter what. So here we are! I live in Canberra, Australia and work in statistical IT systems development and support and am a proud father of two

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s