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We Are Foolish

This is our Garden.

Come in, come in. Let me show you round.

We shall walk, together, bare feet kissed by Grass,

And talk and turn our faces to the sun.

Under the silver birch,

Is the garden of remembrance, where we shall sit

Side by side with those long gone.

Souls revealed in shyly smiling hellebores

That hang their praying heads,

Despairing of the disco-dancing daffodils

And ageing Aunt Aquilegia in her frilly dress.

Old favourites all, that never die

While tender fingers love them still.

Across the rickety bridge, wrapped tight round oak

Hides a battered philosopher’s bench,

With care-worn feet obscured by primrose and wild violets.

Here we shall drop wise thoughts into the brook below

Then chase them through the field of campions and alkanet

And gallop down the hill

To where brook meets river

Under the pussy willow.

And we shall play Pooh Sticks

With our finest thoughts,

Until, revised, we let them flow into the sea to sail

For all eternity.

A captured moment on the sun-drenched terrace

To catch our breath and soak in sun,

Playing hawk eye with the buzzard eyeing us

As he floats and glides on warm waves blowing in from the west.

And then he’s off. He has no need for you and me.

We’ll head towards the glass house gleaming in the evening sun,

And I will show you my heart if you show me yours.

We shall drown in the heady scent of soil and toil

And water drops like diamonds on serried seedlings

That will both feed and paint a picture of a thousand-coloured Heaven.

Then we shall sit under the blood-red beech

And I will pour you wine.

We shall not speak, you and I,

Just turn our heads like tennis lovers,

This way and that, and back again,

Drinking life and love and wine

In celebration of our dear friend Gaia.

And from here, we shall see them coming,

Those men who act like Gods.

Empty men with heavy boots

That bruise the grass with their ambition.

They carry guns and papers that they forged

To give them rights to poison lands not theirs

And copyright our seeds and cure the soil

With the blood of the little man

Who is a fool and doesn’t understand.

And, though their voices carry on the wind,

We shall not listen. We shall sit and drink

Until our thirst is quenched and the sun goes down.

We shall drink to the bottom of the bottle

And spit the lees at them,

For we are Foolish little men

And this is our garden.

The post We Are Foolish appeared first on I Shall Wear Purple.



This post first appeared on I Shall Wear Purple - Because Growing Up Is Option, please read the originial post: here

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We Are Foolish

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