The child in me cannot resist
touching feathery branches of the Larch
before opening tall black gates
entering Floral Hall Courtyard.
Not to me…
My secret garden,
not unlike the hidden garden in Burnett’s story.
Here escape the crush of traffic on Lawrence
giddy youngsters running round and round the spiral mound,
safe from strollers that nip at heels like vixens.
Transparent etched glass walls
welcome espaliered cherry trees
keep tour groups at bay.
Perhaps I’ll meet a bride
dreaming of an elegant setting for her 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
green and white plants undulate
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.
Like Keats, Gail seeks to capture the essence of the moment. Gail’s writing is a response to her natural and emotional environment. Her poems have been published in Blank Spaces, Wordscape, Arborealis and on CommuterLit.com. Her creative non-fiction has appeared in The Globe and Mail, Trellis, Heartbeats, Renaissance, NOW Magazine, Blank Spaces, Our Canada and More of Our Canada.