On Summer afternoons, from two to four,
The sunshine's probing fingers gently trace
A passage 'twixt the city roofs to pour
In fullness on a basement dwelling place.
Here, tended by the occupant within,
A little garden manages to grow.
Each corner for a pot or earth-filled tin
Is utilised; and from these efforts flow
Such unexpected Summer flowers that we
Who pass, heads bent and lost in thought, for this
Brief moment waken from our dreams to see
A world made brighter by such loveliness.
A little garden? No! My heart denies
That such a paradise be judged by size.
that's excellent. I love how you challenge the scope of the garden. great job
Raised the hairs on the back of my neck again Mary, you are a wizard.... I love the way you wield that penbrush of yours to take us right into the picture with you. Thanks.
good write...very pleasing to read, Mary...you have a devoted 'gardener mind....10
BONJOUR MARY OUI je me souviens de ce petit jardin.DE ces qq jours passés à londres, et également chez ta maman; il y a si longtemps.ORLEANS devrait te rappeler des souvenirs.bises annie.
As said, no matter the size, what lies therein matters. Lovely poem.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This is a wonderful piece Mary. I particularlylike the last ffour lines which present a strong potrayal of creation.