Island of Lost Gardens

And yet there l sat, lost in thought and pregnant pause,
The significance of moments in time from afore,
Ghostly shadows of remembrance haunting me like squalls,
That threaten drying pastures begging for more,

Looking out amongst the voiceless and silent ruins,
Tumbledown remnants of a once lively secret paradise,
Now just wild with the imaginative essence of all lost gardens,
And filled with yesterday’s gentle whisperings and lies,

Like watching spilled canvasses, or unbottling of chained memories,
Forgotten traces of the dusts of discarded and broken times,
Runaway rainbow tears falling gently and caressing treacheries,
The islands’ sorrow filled heart seeing between the lines,

And there quietly looking out on yesterdays’ romantic garden,
Times of softest memory floating dreamily away,
Blurred visions, and questions of ‘how did this happen?’
Is life nothing more than broken promises and decay?

With lazy bullets in my skull and a handful of shattered rocks,
And hidden and faceless sunsets running manically wild,
The gardens’ invisible surreal faces of upturned clocks,
Finally allow me to see, yesterdays’ adult and tomorrows’ child.

© Rory Matier 2012