A poem by Liz, illustrated by Clem de Nesle.
The secret garden pulled me in,
The gates thrown open wide.
I stumbled by,
a little shy,
To see what was inside.
Behind the ivy walls of brick,
Beyond the paths of stone,
I slowly went with my mind bent
On reading there alone.
I passed a silent fountain,
Too cold to spout today
- Neptune’s wrath,
a simple bath,
Was left with leaves to play.
The beds were brown with dirt and [mulch
To warm the seeds below;
As winter’s here,
the cold they fear,
A frost will soon bestow.
Yet yellow flowers bloomed a bit,
Forsythia formed her grin;
The sparrows pecked at every speck
Much to the squirrels’ chagrin.
And I sat upon on a wooden bench,
Surrounded by the sun;
I shot the breeze and memories
- All reading still undone.
There seemed no need to hurry back,
To leave this peaceful place:
Why should I flee when finally
I’ve found my perfect space ?
Perhaps I should have never left,
Perhaps I should have stayed…
And as I write by fluorescent light
I can’t help but feel dismayed.
So if the sun comes out again,
And the garden calls once more,
You’ll know outside is where I hide:
I’m just behind her door.