He walks in the garden,through the trees
to admire the flowers lit by shafts of sunlight.
He walks in the garden,
leaving footsteps
on the leaves fallen from the canopy.
He walks in the garden
to hear the birds sing
in the morning and the evening, feeding their young.
He walks in the garden still:
concrete, cars, factories, friction.
His footprints mark the land
that human hands have touched.
He never left the garden.
2 comments:
Where is this poem from, and who is it by? I've tried googling it, but no luck
And what's the story behind you posting it now?
You can't google this poem because I wrote it, ages ago now. I remembered it whilst thinking about the riots and dis-ease of recent days, so I dug it out of the archives and re-posted it.
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