Who is that? Long boney-armed mancrab, with pincher fingers and nails, a-lurking. In the tangled shadows. The taste, the smell, the feel — we stop there, no sound, no vision. The dark dank path strewn with exposed tree roots whose branches grasp and recede, grasp and recede.
Can we walk now? Will they calm? Can we join hands and wait for the crackling of beasts on branches to calm. Will the path widen? Our collective memory paving the wild untamable, till it becomes a civilised road where all can travel with ease of movement. Can we build a bridge between that past thorny path and the soft coloured nuances of the cobbled lane whose bricks we lay day by day for our children’s memories. Their path through the confines of brilliant hot house flowers that we tenderly nurture and grow. Will our well-planned gardens of thornless roses mutate into their barbed wired prisons? To be seen as futile protection from branches laden with wounded agonies that bend and sigh beyond the artificial beauty. Will the soft distant weeping waken them in trembling confusion before the odorless smiles of a folly of tulips dancing in an unknown breeze.
Merry Mary quite contrary how did your garden grow?