Winter’s Garden

I must go into the garden again

to find the limestone and clay

Be waiting by the morning rise

amongst its sleepy decay

but I need no garden to soothe

nor right as would be believed

I need no foot on buried steel

Nor flowers or such conceived

I must paint a canvas filled

with ochre, orange and green

My brush may still hard fabric

As I imagine what I had seen

Or my colours could be dark water

like the rivers of Arcadian deep

Careless what my mind perceives

what it sows or what it reaps

I might write sad tearful verse

words might as hammers fall

Roar and blow like creaking bellows

in the dark of my minds thrall

Or I could sit and watch a while

raise my head close my eyes

Beautiful words nature has spoken

and wonders in earth and sky

Copyright © Declan Molloy | Year Posted 2015

 

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