The Garden

Closing time, the garden was ours

To explore and enjoy the vivid colours of the hydrangeas

The serpentine alleys between the tall Ash trees

The deep silence reigning under

The fan of the fronds of the Fern trees


Was broken by the trees shedding

Their bark without displaying any modesty

The garden was regaining its peaceful and tranquil atmosphere

The surface of the lake reflected the quiet majesty

Of the garden surrounding it,

The floating leaves immobile waiting for a breeze

To send them across its surface under

The gracefully arched wooden bridge

Showing the way to wander freely on the island

The stone walls half pushed, half restrained

By the tree roots echoed the tree canopy

Enclosed by the ensnaring vines

A timely warning to keep moving

The garden had started its night work

Forbidden to human awareness

The atmosphere had subtlety changed

The shadows gradually turned into darkness muting

The colourful flowers beds lost their shimmering effects


And their greyish dullness fuzzed their borders.

The open gates let us escape to the car park

To reality we were back.

©L. Bailliet 18/2/2012