The Devil’s Garden

It is too dark.
The path has wound too long.
It is dark, twisted,
the stuff of nightmares

that never wake.
The undergrowth is black-green
and creeps, almost alive,
reaches for you

in the moments you dare hope.
You are afraid.
You are lost, hungry
for the briefest wisp of sunlight.

You have fought ghosts,
fought indifference, fought
the hungry November fog
and now,

you are weary, ready
almost,
to lie down and let the creeping vines
draw you into their arms,

ready to surrender,
a task that should be easy,
just cease, and rest.
What a joy it would be to rest!

You shut your eyes.
You pray an uncertain prayer,
trusting God will know
what you do not,

that he will love you,
even in your brokenness,
whether you lay here for a black eternity
in the devil’s garden,

or rise.
You listen to the silence, and,
bone weary,
you stand,

and walk.

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The photograph was taken in Cornwall, England. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom