One day I will find the garden.
Round a bend in the lane the green
Gate will be open,
As it has always been.
Overhead, diffuse among leaves
And light-between-leaves, the treacly
Rounded cheek-full chortle
Of a ringdove will sound, sleekly.
There will be shadow, and dew in the shadow,
And one last island glimmer
Of sun on the mottled wall,
Growing slowly dimmer.
A mysterious life will be pricking
From the damp soil through to the tense
Stems of the listening plants.
The air will be dense:
Dense with stillness, dense with the scent
Of frail honeysuckle, splayed
In moon-pale fingers
Over a gulf of shade.
No leaf will stir as I pass;
No flower will sway; no petal
That clings, still, will fall;
The moths will settle;
The grass will bear no footprints.
Though the garden be my dream,
It will have no dreams of me;
I will not even seem
To walk; this garden being
Untouched, untouchable, and one
Where nothing comes or goes except
The wind, the rain, the sun.
by Damaris West
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