Platypus Musings: Gates and Gardens
There is a door in the wall. -old and wooden, with an iron bolt and lock. The wall is high and made of dark grey stone overgrown with moss and ivy. I've always wondered what was behind that door. Was it a garden? -overgrown and tangled with disuse? What would you find there; briars and nests for wild animals? When I was young, I had no way to draw the bolt and get in; now that I am old, the wall and its door have passed and I cannot find my way back.
"Thus spake the old Sir Bedeviere to those with whom he dwelt; new faces, other minds."
The angel stands with fiery sword before the garden door, looking out upon the waste.
What was behind that wooden door?
In the morning mist,
In the morning of the world?
Where God once walked with man,
and held his hand like a little child's.
I don't know.
"Thus spake the old Sir Bedeviere to those with whom he dwelt; new faces, other minds."
The angel stands with fiery sword before the garden door, looking out upon the waste.
What was behind that wooden door?
In the morning mist,
In the morning of the world?
Where God once walked with man,
and held his hand like a little child's.
I don't know.
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