Winters Garden

Winter garden I must go into the garden again to find the limestone and clay Be waiting by the morning rise amongst its sleepy decay but I need no garden to soothe nor right as would be believed I need no foot on buried steel Nor flowers or such conceived I must paint a canvas filled with ochre, orange and green My brush may still hard fabric As I imagine what I had seen Or my colours could be dark water like the rivers of Arcadian deep Careless what my mind perceives what it sows or what it reaps I might write sad tearful verse words might as hammers fall Roar and blow like creaking bellows in the dark of my minds thrall Or I could sit and watch a while raise my head close my eyes Beautiful words nature has spoken and wonders in earth and sky