The Secret Garden - Meditation -
The Secret Garden - Meditation -  poem stories
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The secret garden Down the ginnel, past the post box

The Secret Garden - Meditation -

The secret garden

Down the ginnel, past the post box

There is something ephemeral behind an old pad lock.

A rustic door shrouded by leaves and rock.

Here's the key no need to knock.

A safe sanctuary where you can relax and take stock.

A garden so safe not a sniffle of hemlock.

A place where time goes by but you don't hear the tock of the clock.

For serenity the garden was made ad hoc.

Protected from the presumptuous by a canopy of a sprinkling of trees.

Gently lulled by the fountain and its gentle trickling does please.

A place to rest when the world is too much and has you weak at the knees.

A place where there is no ice, yet your worries they do freeze.

Tears will never fall here in any season only leaves.

A safe place to tackle any emotion fear, loss, and for the bereaved.

You are safe to open up here your secrets are sheathed

Together we will till the garden of every weed.

Tend dutifully to the gardens every need.

tenderly nurture every seed.

So, that every petal can fettle an array of colour to drown out the darkness of iniquity.

Like an artist pestle and mortar of antiquity.

We will marry our ideas and thoughts when we nestle upon the lawn.

And twine our hearts together respectively, seal what is torn.

We can sit there if necessary, through night unto dawn.

We will dance merrily and not be misguided by a faun.

Even in winter this garden is warm.

A place so delicate even the roses are absent of thorns.

This garden is a place you can truly shelter from the storms.

A place where deer never shed their horns.

Nature and is fragile balance never victim to humanities challenge.

And glittered on the fringe is a meadow of chrysanthemums.

The birds and crickets cheep beautiful anthems.

A garden fit for the likes of the pantheons.

In the centre a there is an old magnificent pine.

The gardens elegance bordering divine.

With the grapes of the vine we make the finest wine.

And sip, while in this beautiful garden we sit.

Amidst a world of chaos and drudgery, there is this secret garden.

Down the ginnel, past the post box

There is something ephemeral behind an old pad lock.

A rustic door shrouded by leaves and rock.

Now you have the key no need to knock.

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