A Garden Never Ploughed
M
Mark Heathcote
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A poem is an escape.
It is an SOS call of distress.
Grasping for an Eden
That will never again - exist.
It is a garden never ploughed:
The horizon, a child's brush stroke
That no Medusas glance kills
A poem is a key that evokes.
The senses to their beginning
'What was it like, that innocence? '
That first flap of a bee's wing,
Before all this useless, empty substance
A poem is an oasis
'King Island' is surrounded by blue waters,
A poem speaks in waves.
Its transience embalms many fissures.
It is a garden never ploughed:
Eagles roam the heavens and clouds.
But no sling is ever fired in vengeance.
Distress is answered only with unmitigated penance.
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