Here in this garden
beneath the trunks of trees, towering;
like funnels stretched to sun, suckling,
under a lid of leaves,
little leaves, light leaves,
the leaves of grass,
precious petals procure colour,
caresses of colour bursting bright
as if tempered by a tenuous touch,
like tears on the angel’s cheek at night
no longer seen, no longer heard,
colour, crawling through the chaos,
fragile flickers of faith
falling under footsteps.

I hear the heavens wail as you walk,
walls falling under flattening feet
as what was light and life
returns to soil,
fowled and foiled from strife.

We are all petals in the garden,
in this garden of greed and glory,
looking for a leaf to live under,
as we unfold the shrouds of our story,
ravenous to raise our arms to the sunlight,
striving to be seen in bolts of colour, bright,
breathtaking colour,
brilliant colour,
before we fall under foot
and return, once again,
to the waste and the worms
already twisting and turning,
already sensing our scent,
so confident they are
to conquer our carcasses
when our dreams are done
and our names carved into cement.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly