And I knew that there was nothing
in the garden of tonight.
No hint of silent tree frogs
clutching silvered bark,
curled amphibious fingers
drifting out of sight.
No wolves were howling low
under gibbous beams of light
in a longing
that the upward hills contained.

There was nothing exotic to note.
No sudden flutter of wings
as coloured moths took honeyed flight
and, dusted with the pollen
of a million sleeping flowers,
no pliancy or probing
at the dark prism of life.

No mystery or intrigue, since
your eyes would not seek mine.
No musk from tender skin discerned
to penetrate the night;
no half-forbidden thoughts unloosed
to linger in my mind
and echo like a song line
as the slow moon climbed.

No, nothing will prevail
in the garden of tonight.
Footprints disappear
from dew-tipped grass
in suggestion
of the dawn beyond the fence.
Your shadow is an absence
as the rime traces threads
through the stars’ dim light,
and the nightingale
will never sing at all.

Zetetic separator

—Anne Lawrence is a graduate of English Literature. Her work has been published in Orbis, Acumen, and Artemis Poetry (UK literary magazines), and in several ezines globally. She occasionally tweets @shrewdbanana.

One Response

  1. Roland Petrov
    at · Reply

    This is a very clever and beautiful poem: you conjure up all the beautiful images of the night to contrast with your empty loneliness; thus, the reader enjoys the images and also gets a nostalgic tug on the heartstrings.

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