The Fortunate Garden

The garden holds a drowsy half eyed hum of bees and the whispers of leaves high above, then, a hint of magnolia clouding around the chair on which you lay a breath or two from sleep. The moment a warm surround of passing thoughts let free to wander and drift towards some out of focus haze. And here time passes in a barely conscious play of fragmented scenes, paused briefly when the eyes squint open as if to reassure yourself that you are real and anchored here, not in the prison of someone else’s dream, to awake not you but in another place where the afternoon darkens and you are, instead, lying in a muddy ditch overlooking ruins still smouldering and strewn with dead.