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 Kew GardensWistful clouds floating up on high, Forming beautiful images as they sailed on by The whispering breeze guiding their serene flight, Pursued by moon beams as day turned to night. A sprinkle of rain drops glistening in the trees, Standing ever taller, water caressing their golden leaves. Mother nature at her best, as the sun disappeared from view, And I turned for home, to leave these beautiful gardens of Kew. Content in the knowledge I would soon return, To enjoy once more this peace for which I so yearned. |
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Golden Gate Park |
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Golden Gate Park |
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ribbleton 17-Jun-07, 06:44 |
Kew gardens and Ribbleton I walked quite often in Kew gardens when I was a student in London some years back now. I lived in student residences on the Cromwell Road in South Kensington so I know first hand how your words capture the transfixing mysticism of the place. I offer a little piece about first love in countryside around where I grew up Preston Lancashire a suburb of which was Ribbleton and Grimsargh. Like the sharpest arrows ever imagined, the morning beams of light smashed into every atom of the sparkling dewdrops that crowned the tops of trees and sheathed every blade of grass and shrubbery in the magical woodlands that encircled Cornel’s beloved river Ribble. Both he and Glennys had broken with their tradition that Saturday morning by rising before midday to take a hike into Cornel’s childhood countryside retreat of outer Grimsargh. This was where he felt most welcome. The trees and the white winged butterflies that fluttered and floated around elegantly from one rainbow coloured meadow to the other had nothing against him and he slotted neatly into the whole miraculous scene like a right piece in a jigsaw puzzle. There were no birds, insects or flowers questioning his right to be there, he was one with them and he melted and merged into the mysterious predetermined master plan whose purpose caused each and every tenant to understand without conjecture his station and duties. There was no government that sat to protect the small from the big the weak from the strong. There was no authority adjudicating any difference or conflicts of interests. There were no churches and priests comforting lost terrified creatures through pain and the fear of dying. Dandelions and toads went through the valley of the shadow of death, dying effortlessly and with no self-pity. Change was not something that any entity hid in fear from, there were no clocks in beehives and no pocket watches in the waistcoats of white rabbits. The whole of time was one flash of an unguarded moment. There were no parliaments in this natural order. No doctor ants applying medical remedies to soldier ants. No snowdrops practised psychiatry and no elections were held to find the best and wisest bluebell. In the indifferent incomprehensible immensity of it all Cornel did not hear a single ‘why’ or ‘wherefore’. Each and every creature was absolutely justified and redeemed in the mere fact of its existence and novelty. The whole wondrous soup bubbled, simmered and stewed harmoniously in this first and most primordial of melting pots. There was a God inside every flower and fairy in every tree that gave each the means to be simply what it was. As much as Cornel looked and listened he could not find a label or a definition inscribed anywhere in its green unfolding fabric. He looked up and down the grassy marshland but discovered nothing written down and no laws etched into the barks of trees or typed into the wings of the mighty eerie dragon flies that buzzed him gently and curiously as he and Glennys made their way through the evaporating dawn mist in search of Avalon. |
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Hanging Gardens of Babylon |
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The botanical garden of Lucca |
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de kruidentuin |
