Lorna's Garden

Silver threads of gravel paths
Lead sinuously,
Disclosing secrets,
One by one,
Pausing for applause
At each changing scene.
Ali Baba's urn hides
In its aura of snowy stars;
The canopy of slender trees
Where stippled light
Beams through gaps of sky,
Spotlighting the electric bluebells
That nod in their foliage
Of other-world verdance;
The rush of a playful stream,
First gushing, then gurgling,
In unison with the tinkling of a crystal cascade.

Through a frame of dazzling azaleas
The pagoda's pool reflects
The splendour of a crimson acer
Prostrate in spreading obeisance;
The heron's patinated stare
Is focused across his green fringed pond;
A carpet of fallen camellias
Lies beneath the tight magonolia buds
Which blush as they unfurl slowly,
Petal by petal,
Like demure damsels disrobing;
And golden fish emerge
From their lily pad hideouts
To swim in languid
Figures of eight.

Here, sundials make time
Slow to a halt
In a scented spell,
And dreams recall
A garden once lost
But surely now regained.