A Garden

A Garden

Thru’ the night sweet Endymion sleeps,
Awaiting the soft brush of the moon’s first kiss.
As moonlight sweeps o’er the sheltered grove,
Evening jasmine peeks thru’ Artemis’ fingers
(--Creamy-white, silver by night--),
Nymphaea drifting by upon the star-lit water
While Narcissus nods by the rocky pool,
Tired from a long summer day
Of gazing rapt upon his own complexion.

Thrice-fair Narcissus, be not proud.
Paris awarded the Golden Apple to Aphrodite, not you,
She who was enamoured of Adonis (among others)—
Watch how the fairest is yet beguiled.

Wake, Narcissus, from your self-spun spell,
Though Echo herself faded away in despair,
And others fell to your feet, to no avail,
Keep your balance and topple not in.

He rouses—to an infant’s squalling,
As mighty Achilles is dipped
Into the waters by one heel—
Even the invincible has one weakness.

But see you, yonder laurel tree?
Proud Apollo pressed his suit too far,
And Daphne did flee—nymph transformed—
Hence yonder laurel tree a warning be.

And why does the willow weep?
I’ll tell you, one frond at a time—
Days spun into nights and nights into dawns,
And seasons mesh, spiralling, into years
Thru’ time and space and worlds—

And back to the beginning, before time began,
Across the moors, mountains, lakes and lands.
Before we met, or were, or went;
Till lives converge to some—one—centre,
Where, perforce, we pause, threads entwined,
To muse and gaze and wonder.