There are no gardens where I go,
No frogs, no dogs, no colourful flowers,
No whispered tales of snakes never seen,
No birds, no spiders, no jasmine bowers!
No furious storms, no sudden sunshine,
No silent morns, no riotous afts,
No truant crescent moons, from the Lord’s matted hair,
Arrested, helplessly by His smiles!
Not gardens, but vast stretches of sand,
By the edge of a sea never still,
A small hand that tugs, a young voice that urges,
“Quickly Mom, let’s gather sea-shells!”.
1998
