Once There Was A Garden Poem by Keith Shorrocks Johnson

[for The Syrian poet Mohammad Bashir al-Aani and his son Elyas]

Like a lost boy as the fever peaks
I dream of the doorway of my home
Compounded by desolate abandonment

I have returned at last in my mind's eye
To see my mother making bread
And hear my father unroll his mat for prayer

And I am chilled and shaken by the beauty
Of the fallen facing stones and broken concrete
And the litter that rustles in the hot winds

Only rubble remains but there it is
Garlanded by burnt rags and severed flesh
As the sun's harshness brightens and burns

Once there were family meals and feasts
There was laughter and companionship
Our ancestry was recited and the future sung

And now my son you are brought to this
In the memory of your dear mother:
Would that I could die alone for you

Caught guiltless in the branches of a great oak
They will sacrifice you as well to bitterness:
'My son, my son - would God I had died for you'.

...

To calm our fears before the sword
They are giving us sherbet and water melon juice:
Lets us sip these in the garden where we will be still.