My misgivings hide among the shadows, In the tangle of long grass along the hedgerow Between your wide open fields and my cultivated lawn.
Unspoken truths crowd out the spring bulbs, Now snarled with weeds and thorned with blackberry, The cobbled pathway which once linked my hope with your promise.
Will you meet me at the gate by the old sycamore tree? If yes, then bring your dreams, untethered, and the dappled autumn sunshine, I will bring my careful notions and the soft spring rain.
Prim roses and wild lilac; a velvet ash and sweet chestnuts, Your gypsy summer, my redbud winter, Our season, one garden.
‘Nothing is all bad. There are very beautiful flowers in the desert amidst the spikes and thorns. Just don't let them take over. In the garden of love there is little room for prickly things.' - Kate McGahan
a short reprieve as time would tell but for that moment as winter yielded to rest Ballaarat had turned on a day
no more did grey rain slice savagely side-wards shot from Antarctica's ice-fields separating ribs from shivering flesh leaving futile dreams of an early spring
this day was good leaves barely rustled occasional gusts stirred caught in silent murmurings as bulbs reached up with impish smile
this old gold-rush town in mid-Victoria, Australia, is built on a windy plateau, and though gracious in its traditional beauty, is known for relentless winds most of the year... a fine day is celebrated!