The garden
The garden is a living cell
A Monet' of colour
and still reflection!
Its life is onwards moving…
But still like the sun
forever in dusk or dawn:
A theatre of hearts
beating as one!
An applauds of petals
Scented; in love.
The garden is a river…
a place of worship
a place to espy
a good time to die.
poem by Mark Heathcote
Added by Poetry Lover
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