In This Garden

In this garden

they hid the truth.

A lie behind the tulips,

their dirty secrets buried

beneath truer dirt than theirs.

How they piled up the earth,

blanching the tender shoots

of what comes around.

A token for the gardener

who never mentioned it.

Purity faked by the discipline

of someone else’s toil.

The visitors cannot think straight

among the scent of roses,

the shiver of golden stamens

and all the thirsty colours.

But somewhere in the dazzles

lies the sterile matter of a debt,

a hibernating demon

they hope to pacify

with gentlest forces of nature.

Or even to themselves forget

while they contemplate on

the cycle of a fruit tree.

In this garden

they hid the truth

behind honest wooden handles

which gnarl the paid hands.

While the bluebells sleep

without a conscience 

and the lilies scream

because they cannot hide.

And at the lost lake, 

lies are filtered through the reeds,

among the lightning fish.

In this garden

wasps will find the rotten fruit

and sow their stings upon

the sincerest of buds

as they swell with remorse.