In the Land of Flowers

Late, late have I loved Thee, O Beauty most old and yet most new.... Thou didst call and very loud and didst break through my deafness. Thou didst shine and my darkness was scattered. Thou didst touch me and I burned for thy peace.*


In the land of flowers

and buzzing bees,

of berries and ferns

and a lawn like a meadow,

between the black wattle

that spread its thick branches

over the roof of the garage,

and the willow that grew

behind the lattice summerhouse,

I played with my friends.

Most were children like me

only their clothes were different.

(Clothes of bygone eras,

I learned as I grew, 

finding pictures in costume books, 

fancy-dress or historical.)

Everyone else told me

there were no other children,

except for when cousins 

or neighbours came –

I was alone in my garden.

Some of my friends were insects –

spotted ladybirds, gold-striped bees,

tawny butterflies, and fluttery

white cabbage moths which I wasn't

allowed to like because they were pests

(but I did) and beetles with jointed legs.

There were others – bright, quick lights

that flew, and inhabited plants.

They looked like insects, mostly,

to most people, and not like

the pretty, winged fairies in picture-books.

(But sometimes I saw their faces,

so I knew. And there was that day

when one stared back at me

and spoke, mind to mind,

just for a few moments, before –

as they always did – she vanished.)

One of my friends

was a bit like my Grandpa,

but younger and taller.

He and Grandpa both

walked and talked with me

among the ferns and flowers.

They both answered my questions;

both showed me, minutely,

the beauty of insects and grass,

trees and birds and clouds –

but not at the same time.

This wise friend was another

only I could hear and see.

(He never showed me

the mask with the ibis beak.

I found out his name later,

when a seer friend told me

who he saw around me, describing

other details I recognised:

'Oh, him. I know him! He's always 

been here. My old pal.' 

Never, therefore, awed.)

It's a hard thing for a child,

not being believed. 'Tell the truth!'

they say – and you are, but even 

your parents, who promise they love you, 

are sure it must be a story, something 

you made up. They think it's clever. 'What 

a wonderful imagination!' But later

they start to worry. 'She lives too much

in her dreams and fancies. It can't
be healthy.' So I learned 

the habit of keeping secret 

certain things that were real.

I knew even then, without

the words and concepts I have now,

that trees have souls and consciousness,

that every blade of grass 

sparks with Divine fire,

that the earth is alive, that God

is the great Mother – I 

her priestess if she will –

and knew her face, 
evanescent, glimpsed in dream,

flickering in the variety 

of her faceted world,

as exquisite, eternal beauty.


* Words of St Augustine, translated by Helen Waddell and quoted exactly as above in her book on Peter Abelard. (Part of a longer piece of writing, the rest of which she doesn't quote.)


I'm linking this to The Tuesday Platform for July 26 2016 at 'imaginary garden with real toads',