…of isolation

Far below, gardens of rock and of withered rose
where sunlight spills through a wall of crumbling stone
here are no flowers, no falling leaves
and blades of grass are trampled underfoot
so much lost beauty, so much sorrow, too much reflection
shadows move, across the memories in my mind
as the dawn clings to the night, the same red sun is rising
if only the fragrance could remain
yet it lies empty, unbearable, before me
and the memories come haunting
where whispers lead to more whispers and linger in the air
like the remembered sigh of the one who is not here
long enough to remind me that you exist
only in the silent paths of my heart
bathed in sweet seclusion, here in this garden
with all its ghostly inhabitants
I understand at once, the beauty of isolation
© Ann Bagnall