Secret Garden
The child in me cannot resist touching feathery branches of the Larch opening tall black gates entering Floral Hall Courtyard. Not to me… secret garden, not unlike Burnett’s hidden garden escape the crush of traffic on Lawrence strollers that nip at heels like vixens giddy youngsters running round and round the spiral mound. Transparent etched glass walls welcome espaliered cherry trees keep tour groups at bay. Perhaps I’ll meet a bride dreaming of elegant nuptials made magic by candlelight reflected off pale blooms in soft evening glow. Listen, water trickles down the water curtain over silvery chain mail collects in a quiet pool fragrant David Austin roses perfume humid summer air. Touch, brittle horse tail rushes standing warrior straight ancient mauve wisteria slowly climbs rigid grey Credit Valley stone Bend low pet the woolly lamb’s ears run your fingers against lavender whose oil scents and soothes. Linger.
Brooklin Poetry Society 