The garden

The garden is a living cell
A Monet' of colour
and still reflection!

Its life is onwards moving…
But still like the sun
forever in dusk or dawn:

A theatre of hearts
beating as one!
An applauds of petals
Scented; in love.

The garden is a river…
a place of worship
a place to espy
a good time to die.

poem by Mark Heathcote
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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