Poem: ‘The Garden’
Harry Clifton, 23 October 2003
It was a closed space. From the moment I saw it I knew I could depend on it. To hell with the endless weathers Passing above, and the high apartments Shadowing it. Down here On the stone bench, of an autumn morning, I felt for a moment, the heat of sun on my face As it angled around the corner Out of sight. My patch of sky Went blue then, or grey, And I went inside. But it was always there,...