In the Garden
It was a Victorian garden with winding paths,
With a formal terrace and a conservatory;
Where exotic plants flourished in the warmth,
And planted urns of wisteria and roses grew wildly.
Chestnut trees with fallen leaves crumbling;
Benches worn and beckoning to rest a soul;
The sky was muted and grey without a moon,
It was deeply dark and cool in the garden this night.
The lady was quietly absorbed as she walked,
Lost in her own world in this gentle atmosphere;
She wore a mauve gown that revealed pale skin,
And her wrap was of the softest peach chiffon.
A pearl necklace embraced her slender neck,
And dark flowing hair blew in the cool breeze;
Her sadness deep, perhaps the death of someone,
Perhaps the death of love yet she was in quiet repose.
He stood watching her for the longest of time,
There was such a calmness and serenity here;
A deep love for this lady filled his heart and soul,
And stepping off the terrace he called out her name.
. . . she ran to him weeping for she had thought him lost . . .
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March 4, 2015
Poetry/Verse/In The Garden
Copyright Protected, ID 03-647-289-04
All Rights Reserved, 2015, Constance La France
For the Mid July Standard Contest
Sponsor, Brian Strand
Second Place
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Submitted to the Premier contest, Pick A Subject
Sponsor, Shadow Hamilton, Judged 04/2015
Second Place
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