In a Dartmoor Garden

 

My soul is like this garden, lush and wild,

With secret shady nooks and sunlit glades,

Lulled by exquisite silence, or beguiled

By whispering words and fleeting fantasies

That dance along my life like shimmering streams.

 

This pool reflects my mind, so deep and still,

Where thoughts can hide like timid darting fish;

Or soaring free above the mossy walls,

It seeks the open heath and ancient tors

Beyond the magic of this private world.

 

My dreams are wistful as the sighing breeze

That conjures weeping memories from afar;

Sad as the silver moonshine on the grass

Or eerie hoot of watchful owls that haunt

The brooding bowers of these slumbering woods.

 

My spirit’s carefree as this babbling brook

That tumbles foaming over rocky falls,

Then sings and surges bravely on its way,

Yet held in check by bonds as delicate

As twinkling cobwebs jewelled by the rain.

 

My love is like this thicket – savage, strong,

Its vast green shoots as tough as wires of steel,

But brushed by gentle thoughts like butterflies,

And at its centre, guarded by the thorns,

There grow the vivid flowers of my heart.

 

 

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