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The Walled Garden

My ideal garden remains one of imagination. a place I like to visit regularly, especially when tired or disatisfied with life. A secret place where, once I step over the threshold, the tranquillity and serenity soothes my physical and mental wellbeing, I am refreshed, renewed. The advantages of a fantasy garden like mine is that you can take it with you where ever you go, the weeds are never a problem and should I decided to add a new feature or plant it is instantly matured and in full bloom. If that is what I wish.

The Walled Garden is always aproached through open french windows and it is always evening. Filmy lace curtains billow out to greet me, carried by the gentlest of breezes, they softly brush against my face, all is hushed, peaceful. Only natural sounds; breeze in leafy branch or the scurry of tiny sugar possums, are allowed to disturb the calm of this realm. I step through the curtains, down to a narrow, well worn step, then to the large flagstones of the garden path, still warm from the sun. I know they are warm because my feet are bare. At first the darkness seems impenetrable, but as I look about me my eyes adjust and slowly the garden comes into view. High walls of stone, smothered in ivy, climbing roses and an ancient Honeysuckle which fills the air with perfume. The flagstones form a wide pathway, overgrown on either side by crowded gardenbeds. Hydrangea, Camillia and Ornamental Plum form a backdrop to drifts of Azale, Gardenia, lush Ferns and Salvia. Sweet Alysium snuggles down between the cracks in the flagstones. Pretty, blue Lobillia and Babytears fills the space left.

There is the soothing sounds of falling wate., In the starlight I see the shadowy shape of the pond and fountain ahead of me. A flash of bronzed scale and a goldfish splashes suddenly in the hushed night. Somewhere, among the creepers of the garden wall, a nestling chirrups softly. There is the flutter of feathers as the mother settles herself in her nest. Above, the sky is wide and vast, only the mute stars; bright diamonds in their black velvet bed. Sometimes there are clouds, scudding silently above, backlit by the full moon. Or, perhaps, smitten red, blushing with the dying rays of an elsewhere sun.

I walk slowly on through the garden to the pond, feeling the soft caress of the cool breeze. The pathway leads me on and I eventually come to the creeper laden back wall. Hidden here is a large, heavy wooden door set in the stonework. I have never seen this door open so I cannot tell you what lays beyond. Sometimes I fancy I can hear the rush and hiss of waves on a beach. Sometimes the low tones of distant voices or occasionally the steady tromp of many passing feet on a dusty road and the rattle of cart wheels. The old door, guarded by its dark ivy and rambling rose, remains closed. It seems that is how it will stay. The garden is mine and that is enough, for now.


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