The whole story
The garden was fenced by white picketsĀ
Going all around. It housed a birdbath
From which birds mostly just drank.
The tree in the garden shaded half of the small
Space, a neat little garden bed where flowers
For a mantle could to be selected.
It was a pretty picture, with a wood bench
That folded over to become a picnic table.
Ā
If you wanted, fairies might visit,
It was such a garden your imagination could
Run wild in. But only as a child.Ā
Otherwise, you remembered the dog in a black
Plastic bag dad buried under the weed divider.
You had to clear away the gravel, peel back theĀ
Plastic to dig into the earth for that.Ā
It reminded you the day the pet's warm body
Ā
Was delivered back from the vet.
It reminded you of when you were ten.
Things seemed better back then, only they didn't really.
It was because you couldn't remember, quite.
A few decades later and your mother might set
You straight. She'd written a poem.
A thing about all the blackness that surrounds
The child's nieve memory of the time.
She'd written a poem in reply to your own
To set you straight only it was up to a man'sĀ
Imagination to figure out how the poem went, becauseĀ
She wouldn't show you, would she?Ā
So you never knew theĀ whole of the story.
Ā
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Comments
The Doggie Heaven. I lost a lot of good friends that way. A Good Story.
A very impressive bit of autobiographical self disclosure .. enjoyed muchly hence the pin ..Ā
My dear Rory, sometimes it is better not to know, I see the pain of not knowing yet a huge need to understand even if knowing were to be of pure agony, when we are children we see everything through rose coloured glasses if we are lucky, if we are not we see things that in later life make us reflect on and indeed when all the pieces of the puzzle don't actually fit our minds have to make up the ending. This is a very powerful piece I felt the sorrow of the dead dog and the pain waiting for the person who should help you with the pieces (your own mother)being in fact quiet, sometimes the silence is harder than the truth, sometimes the truth would be better if it was silent. Kudos my friend this is an amazing piece of poetry taking me back to my own childhood spooks. š¹Ā
Harrison, gods know why, but seeing my short prices through your eyes heightens my readbacks of them.Ā
Probably because I can see through the words and into the meaning, but that is because you trust me with your poems XĀ
Better at making sense of things than I am
Rory this is a masterpiece. I love the tone of the narrator, the sadness, bittersweet memories half remembered which nevertheless less have stained the soul.The scars of childhood ger bigger with time. I love the way its all mixed up with feelings about your mother. Brilliant!! x