poetry, writing

Temperate

A young lad or lass, hard to tell, frozen in time.

They watch over the garden by day and by night.

Their icy gaze chill all who approach,

Many move on, disrupted by the sight.

But to others, the figure appears serene,

especially when sitting in the light

Knees tucked up grasped by clasped hands,

The figure looks so right,

Hidden amongst the flowers.

Waiting on midnight’s showers.

Inspired by a statue found in the Temperate House at the Royal Botanical Gardens in Belfast, Northern Ireland

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