Gerald Hampshire
The Topiary Garden
I follow the tour-party
through the tall, wrought iron gates.
The same gates,
black, with gold-tipped spikes
soaring into the bright sky
like Roman spears.
“Nothing has changed,” the guide says.
In front of me
the same yew trees,
clipped and wired,
the same shadows
on the gravel path,
the same ruined priory
in the background.
I close my eyes.
But something has changed;
our hand in mine,
your gentle laughter as we admire
the wonder of topiary green
dogs, green peacocks,
long alleys and canal-like pools.
“Dates from 1692, nothing has been changed.”
The guide moves on, voices fade ...
I open my eyes.
The sun is bright
but there are shadows in my mind.
here is no sound now in
the Topiary garden just
the voice of the wind
weeping for the love that is gone.
Page(s) 47
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