The Garden Poem by Mark Heathcote
The Garden
The garden is a living cell.
A Monet' of colour
and a still reflection,
Its life is onward moving.
But still, like the sun,
forever in dusk or dawn:
A theatre of hearts
beating as one!
And an applause of petals
Scented; in love.
The garden is a river.
A place of worship
a place to espy
a good time to die.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Topic(s) of this poem: poem
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4/26/2024 2:09:16 AM # 1.0.0.1119
Wonderful, enjoyed reading, thank you.