The Soul’s Garden

 An older one today as the gardens all around us come to life and bloom...

The Soul’s Garden

 

The Garden

of my Soul

is an old one.

Filled with the deep

chocolate smell of

rich worm-tilled earth

and fallen leaves.

 

A place of wild peace

and gentle fires,

with, here and there,

a secret corner;

warm old pavement,

damp fenny reeds,

cracked urns 

fountaining flowers;

descendents of 

ancient planting

by long forgotten hands.

 

Fireworks of blooms

of a sudden season’s turning

illumine thick wild hedges,

silent,

but for the rustle

of a Blackbird’s

wing.

 

From quiet meditation,

here, one can be startled

by an unexpected verse

of Robin-song;

or a Stormcock’s exultant

heralding of evening rain.

 

In deep tree-shadowed pools

The sudden ‘plash of a frog

causes circles

of eternity to spread

ruffling calm surfaces,

until reflection’s repose

is renewed.

 

Here the Bee drones and

the solid munching

of the Caterpillar is heard;

deep quiet belies

deep activity,

and even the stones

sing

if one has silence

enough to hear.

 

At the edge, a crumbling wall,

more ancient ivy than stone,

makes border where

the Woods begin,

dropping gifts of 

wildness within

from overhanging

forested fingers.

 

And here,

where Mice live,

in morterless walls,

in the Dawn Light

the web is seen.

 

Reflection of all Life,

spangled in dew-drop gold

it’s beauty, revealed

while Spider rests from

night’s toil

 

I stand

barefooted

In the Garden

of my Soul,

feet and toe deep,

in ancient soils

of a long time prepared

to yield such a

flower.

And from the Light

beyond all night

I hear the Gardener say

“Be and fulfil,

and you will

be fulfilled.”