Wednesday, 17 August 2011

He walks in the garden

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.


Silvana said...

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?

Cloister said...

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.