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January 16, 2020
But where shall wisdom be found? 
And where is the place of understanding?
– Job 28: 12
This garden breathes
as sunset strokes the goldenrod and slides away.
This place has known
the touch of raindrop, breeze and gale,
the sudden chill when crows call clouds –
the warmth when they disperse –
the breath of ghosts when breezes fail;
has felt the weight of ice
diminish, leaving
crumbled stone,
then heath, then grass, then trees;
has witnessed deer
then sheep, then horses graze,
lawns displace fields,
roads lead where paths once led,
to bivouacs, then barns, then homes;
has heard the sound of children’s games,
of disputes, clashes, laughter,
campfires, kitchens, idling cars;
the quieter tones of love and tears,
and parents pointing out the stars;
has stood its ground,
as shadows marked the years and seasons by
the way they fell,
and waned or grew,
and when and where
they travelled from and to;
and now, as fading summer falls
on rose, anemone and goldenrod –
the gardener’s pride –
if asked to weigh the worth of all it’s held,
this gentle place would likely say
it could not tell.

First published in Poetry Salzburg Review no 34.
One Comment leave one →
  1. Phil Champain permalink
    January 16, 2020 9:09 pm

    Hi Phil – I love this poem – wondering how you’re doing. Hope all well? Phil x

    Sent from my iPhone


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