In The Gardens Of Margaret Robberts Poem by Gert Strydom

In the gardens of Margaret Robberts
white roman pillars runs
in rows down a lane
and there’s a green domed roof
that throws a long shadow.

Between the plants there are fairies hiding
and their homes are forsaken,
camped off with silver wire
and as if she has escaped
one blows on a copper magical flute.

There are red roses
blooming beautifully
and a citrus odour
coming from the lemon trees
and three boys are proud
of the lemons that they are carrying
and I wonder what is going to happen
when they eat some of them.

In the small chapel
I take my hat from my head
and there are beautiful verses
on the walls
and a round stained glass window
with a golden cross
and points pointing
like a white compass
in all directions
that is possible to determine.

We say a silent prayer
and walk to the bell tower
where you hold the chain
for a photograph
and you pay for cool drink,
chicken pie and spinach quiche
and we are exhausted
from the summer heat
and everything becomes peaceful
and I look at you
while you scatter pink rock salt
over your food

l’Envoi
Later we walk to a place
where angels hang on fine strings
and you sit and relax
on a bench with one painted
against the wall
while I try to catch
everything with the camera
and you smile more beautiful
than any angel,
with rays shining out of your golden eyes
and there’s a cute sunhat
on your head
and your locks fall in auburn strings
past you slender shoulders.