Arcadia Lost
The fading garden stares, shadows
the dusty dry where ducklings played
the vacancies where palms once filled the sky
The still nests empty of children, hope.
The clouding sky stares, reflects
The turgid pool, deserted deck,
bikinied youth lost to years.
Shivers suppress anticipation
flaccid as the idle vacuum hose
floating sidled in the murk.
Mourning, I stare, comprehending
dowager-ed graces masking truth;
The figs rot, too many for the few.
The kitchen microwaved, decayed
The plastic breakfast chairs, hollow as the faith
Straining beneath the weight of human dignity.
Ants, invading through a poisoned sewage breach
Die by the score, still come, still come, still come. . .
The fat goldfish stares,
breaks the surface, ignores his dying cousin
Eyes a passing fly, caves his dark round mouth, waits
Erases all on the count of three.
About this: For 16 years, home in South Africa has been at Birdwood, a bed and breakfast in a once quiet, gracious, century old neighbourhood, where guests are put up in cottages in a lovely garden behind the family's historic Victorian home.When I first visited, I was enchanted as much by the grace, the friendliness, the easy hospitality, as by the pleasant physical surroundings--the ducks in the little pond, the fountains tucked into the landscaping, the towering palms. For all these years, Birdwood's host, Santie, her partner, her children and theirs, have become something of an adopted family to me, and have provided a sense of belonging while I was engaged in a foreign culture.
On the surface, Birdwood is the same, and the welcome is as warm as ever. But look closely, and the signs of time's passage are indelible, etched in the gardens that give it is name.