Secret garden.
The natures enigma hides for a while,But the bed of grass is telling of the wind -
and where it hopes to be heading.
With a whisper of words stained;
An acer paints the picture for it does blush.
The sun hides from the animus rain
Whilst the dew comes a'calling the dusk.
The supple bamboo of the fresh
Green juvenile; seemingly flourished.
I want to blossom the seeds that bind me;
To be pardoned to kiss that florid rose.
And I shall glance into that garden once more
with a higher regard for what it knows.
Poetry by John Ashleigh
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Written on 2011-11-20 at 23:45
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