The Midnight Garden

Nothing is there to know when we are standing at the foot of the hour

In the place with the midnight garden.

We only really become alive at night 

At the time when all else is still 

And something inside us is breaking 

The chime on the grandfather clock feels louder somehow 

And the roses who usually sprig with the hum of bees and catch the golden light 

Are dull now 

But they have a kind of elegance their daytime counter does not possess 

Blessed be the stupor of the tree of time 

Who remains infinite in his elderly pose

And watches over us all, no matter the hour;

And the twiglets and vines that rise over the brick home 

Leading us neither outwards or away 

Nor taking us over the pass where we no longer care to tread 

We are not tired, no

But there is silence surrounding what is alive;

There is stillness surrounding what is bursting 

It is a time to wake in a new way 

In the surrounds of the dark

In the memory of death 

In the momentary out-of-body experience

That carries us everywhere, and nowhere

And we sing the song that is only inside us 

To be heard only by us