A garden inside me, unknown, secret, neglected for years.
The layers of its soil deep and thick.
Trees in the corners with branching arms
and the tangled briars like broken nets.
Sunrise through the misted orchard,
morning sun turns silver on pointed twigs.
I have awoken from the sleep of ages.
Not too sure if I am really seeing,
or only dreaming,
or simply astonished
walking towards sunrise,
to have stumbled into the garden
where the stone was rolled
from the tomb of longing.
