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The Mockery Garden
The girl, new, fresh;
wandered innocently
through the mockery;
the type the English
are so fond of building.
Fronds of false friendship
brushed against her virgin skin
leaving seeds of doubt
within her delicate folds,
to be harvested;
in time.
She was tempted
by the alluring,
plump, red fruit;
whose juices now mingled
with her blood
upon the thousand
tiny cuts
their barbs had made.
And as she walked
the brambles
rustling whispers
of deceit
followed in her shadow.
She quickly turned around
to find
a glorious array
of Gladioli
their bright colors
embroidered by the sun;
in the breeze
bobbing their approval.
Copyright ©
Terry Miller
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