The following poem was first published in Issue 12 (2004) of Ancient Paths literary magazine.
Statue in the Garden by Newton Miner
“Here is noon home, here is but wildernesse.”
- Chaucer, Trouthe
Daily we drown in moral atrophy.
Maturity, it seems, is what we learn from the smooth face of deceit at every turn. Blight and brambles of love infect TV. Theft, abandon, gunfire soil the street. Where are the certainties for which we yearn? The trek is still through wilderness, alone.
In aimless walk one day my sullen feet found an old churchyard where a cluttered path wound into garden — now a growth gone wild. There, among vines, half-hidden, like a wraith, a statue stood with mystery in His smile and arms extended forth to tangled earth to come and rest in peace a little while.