The Looking Garden.

In my mothers garden, would I find it there?

Through the swishing gowns of honeysuckle,

led by black and yellow tux clad females.

Here sex is carried in the wind.

 

I looked by the pergola wrapped in a quilt

of red trumpet and a teenage grape vine.

Each year the vine produced miniature green pearls.

Unfit for wine or sultanas.

 

I looked in the pond my mother had made. 

Surrounded by tiger lilies, solar lights and minature roeses.

One for every Mothers Day. 

 A hearty purple smoke tree placed next to a ceramic bird bath.

Garden fairies played their silent instruments to amuse the coy fish.

 

I looked between the thistle weeds that I pulled out and tossed aside.

I searched through the bluebells, marigolds and lilly of the valley. 

I worked hard, the sun buring my face.

freckles forming prodomintaly on fair skin,

blonde streaking through strawberry hair.

I didn’t find what I was seeking.