I always thought that weeds where flowers, planted by the fairy folk.
And the thorns blunt daggers, a secret inner joke.
Left to taunt the ones that can remember dancing round the oak.

The garden's beauty's mocking, the maidens only half fair.
A memory left over from a time when no one would dare...

The garden pool's half empty, you're smile reflects a glare.
The garden's bird feeders are empty and every living creature must beware.

The garden is poisonous , the unicorns now a mare.
A shadow left over from a time cradled with care...

And every day is meaningless, and every thrones a broken chair.
The tower that you searched for your whole life begins to cave as you alight the very first stair.