Thursday, September 22, 2016

The Secret Garden by Lise Colas

Forlorn,
patchy--a garden of eden
stalled, soft hollows 
promise nothing of gold captured,
where once lush grass 
keen-edged
coaxed crimson beads from tender flesh,
now a wilderness choked
with the rattle of dead things,
brooded over by man and beast,
appetite bred out of them,
staring ahead,
making us abandon that quest for
a thin seam of rapture
buried deep inside this pasture churned
over, vessels and broken ends
lying side by side in counterfeit bliss
ripped along silk of longing,
returning to that first kiss,
the seed of everything that comes after.
And when the day fades
casting a steepled shadow
over the unrecognisable leaves
and an acorn escapes the rake’s teeth,
coddle it like a small flame,
watch it leap and dance,
then plant it at your feet,
before the head gardener brings
his empty barrow
to take away the tools.







Lise Colas writes short fiction and poetry and lives on the south coast of England. She has a BA (Hons) in Fine Art and used to work in the archive of Punch magazine. She has a poetry blog at lisecolas.wordpress.com.

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