Alison’s Garden
In Alison’s Garden a young boy lies.
His hands are pressed tightly against his eyes.
He counts aloud as seconds pass (one…two…),
his stocking absorbing the grass’s hue.
Alison waits behind a tree nearby.
Her light grey eyes reflect the cloudy sky.
She focuses her mind upon her plan
to try and catch a cricket in her hand.
She concentrates to keep questions at bay
such like those that plagued her nurse every day.
Once Nurse had had enough she bade her, “Go
to the garden and watch the flowers grow.
Some silent meditation will do you good.
Just do not wander off into the wood.”
(three…four…) Alison ceased becoming bored
once she’d unearthed the garden’s treasured store.
Here she could speak freely amongst the birds
and not fear if she had been overheard.
The rocks never minded her queries like,
“What is love?” and “How does the sun alight?”
She thought she heard her mother’s chiming voice
calling to her upon the wind, “Rejoice
my love for every single dawn.
And do not believe those who say you’re wrong.”
Alison oft retold tales from the past
whispered by her ill mother to the last.
By her bedside Alison listened rapt
as her mother unspun yarns so long trapped.
“There was a girl called Alice the Mighty
who lived with your grandparents by the sea.
She loved to sit in her garden and read
And dream of different worlds inside her head.
One day her cat, Dinah, saw a rabbit
and this one had a very nasty habit.
He could never keep time so he was late.
She followed him to the wood (seven…eight…)
She fell down a hidden hole, long and dark.
She grasped for purchase but only felt bark.
She stopped, unlocking a door in the tree.
Oh, my daughter, what worlds there were to see.”
Her mother’s tales comforted Alison
when nights were long after her Mum had gone.
The girl had always thought that she would find
her mother past the world she’d left behind.
A place filled with wonders: red and white queens,
the most mad tea party you had ever seen,
hatters, mice, Cheshire cats, croquet, glass vials,
singing flowers, changing sizes, and trials.
(nine…ten…) “Here I come!” the white-haired boy cried.
Alison, snapped from her daydreams, replied,
“Cabbot, I’m late!” through the trees she’s running.
The woods were calling and rain was coming.
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