Frightful garden,

deriding my febrile city,

dreamily reclining,

harbouring nightmares.

Women stop,

intoxicated by your

lovely bluebells;

out of their morning faces,

reflecting temples,

chimes a steady lunatic

nothingness,

a jack hammer

cracking open the skull

of yet another dog day.

Garden of languid silences,

your sundial’s sharp gnomon

is as precise, as inexorable

as a much used reaper,

cleaving justice.

Cast to one side,

in the raw light of day,

the insects and the worms

and the iniquity of

human history.

Cast to the other side

shadow,

great indecipherable depths

in which we all find

equilibrium,

and even the sun

discovers her silent voice

at last.

Out of the face

of the bluebell,

I sense the sweet hum

of things to come.

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