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.