In Gardens of Patterned Breezes
Louise Oliver
In gardens
of patterned breezes,
where scented rivers flow, I come and go.
I first stumbled
through the gateway
on the harshest of days, in a time when tears turned to snow
and icicles hung from eyelashes
over hollowed eyes.
Fern-like frost was forming
on the cracked windowpanes of the soul
and in this raw hour
the gardens took me in,
washing me in laughing colours, then drying me
and dusting me down
with warm words of welcome.
I trod on mossy grass in my bare feet,
all the while thawing out
to the sound of soaring birdsong.
Now, if ever the heart shrinks and shivers
or the mind puddles and freezes over,
I come to wander
through these hidden gardens, beyond an elusive door,
beyond a wandering wall, beyond, beyond, beyond.
Once, I found the best seat in the world.
I was passing through an orchard, when I came upon an angel sitting on a log bench.
By the time I’d made my way along the avenue
of blossoming trees, the angel had risen into the air,
leaving me the rough seat.
So I sat down
and all the weariness
was whisked out of me.
I seemed to fill with bubbles. Maybe I slept, I’m not sure.
I walked on
with the angel leading the way and stopping
to show me gentle things,
like a pool of pearly petals on the gravel path or a leaf hanging
by an invisible thread, dancing in the wind.
There seemed to be eyes
peeping out from behind
tall grasses and spindly trees.
We came upon a trumpet flower that only opens for one day in the whole year
and this was the day! It smelled
like a hundred hyacinths and wasn’t at all shy.
Stopping to rest
beneath a twisted tree, I asked the angel:
“What are you going to do now?” and the angel said: “Listen.
We’re here to listen. And to wait. And to sing.”
“What are you listening to?” “We’re listening for the shadows, the hidden and the lost.” “What are you waiting for?” “The moment of the bluest blue. The in-between. Twilight maybe.” “What will you sing?”
“We’re singing to the seedlings and humming to the ground. We’re serenading sunlight and everything earthbound. We warble to the saplings and whistle past the trees, sing lullabies to berries or bees upon the breeze.”
“We sing along with subsoil and with the window box, with potting sheds and planters, soft grass and water clocks. When crooning to the snowdrop, the sunflower or sweet pea, they listen with amusement and absentmindedly.�
“We’re chanting to the seasons with anthem and lament, composing songs of rising on clouds of floral scent. We’re singing for our supper and to aerate the soul, to feed and water wonder, to worship and extol.”
Now I often sit quietly here,
drenched in a marvellous mist or a sudden silver shower,
finding solace and waiting for a gust of wind
to carry me home.
In gardens
of patterned breezes,
where scented rivers flow, I come and go.
In Gardens of Patterned Breezes Louise Oliver 2018