III. The Gardens
i stare at the familiar walls
the now overgrown gardens
where we used to lie and sit and run
why do they feel colder to me now?
have the years long been gone?
the half unkempt yard
an aesthetic boon to our childhood
where we dwell many playing days
through our wooden broken front gate
under the arbor of yellow bells.
growing along the rusty fence
popping red flowers of May
evoke hot summers of church processions
and fragrant whiffs of little white buds
onslaught passersby as dusk deepens.
the grass was attuned to seasons
yellow and brown on summers
looking bleak and bare
Irish green on wet months
with a spray of dew to damp the air.
the old backyard trees
golden hued on late afternoons
invite me under their drowsy arms
why don't they now beckon to me?
they turned frail like crumbling stones.
lilies, daisies, orchids and roses
fruit trees and herbs
slabs of corner stones and a path of pebbles
these are things I miss
these were things that have become dribbled memories.
my home is no more,
only a hollow shell remains.
(an excerpt from Ode to my Childhood Home)
{the secret garden (film)}
