(Inspired by Ralph Albert Blakelock’s painting The Artist’s Garden — 1880 — American.)
An artist’s garden—
too commonplace to think that it could happen here:
the dusk gathering by degrees
its forceful melancholy,
demanding to be more than daylight’s dwindling,
asserting itself until it changes
with uncanny exactness
into a state of mind.
While the hues of blooming flowers fade,
the once-bright pathways turn gray—
taper to blackened ends.
Fragrances linger
in the springtime air
that holds unanswered questions.
The elm trees’ shadows deepen
until they portray the void within the artist’s soul.
Rows of cultivated flowerbeds
bow to unrealized dreams.
This, while the fading sky and indelible gloom
suffuses the dimming hedges.
Diminutive, in the distance,
a church spire, to which
the dying day’s light clings.
Faith, assurance, and hope
give way to the moment
when disillusionment
renders every leaf and stem colorless.
Gregory E. Lucas writes fiction and poetry. His short stories and poems have appeared in many magazines, such as The Ekphrastic Review, The Horror Zine, and Blueline. He lives on Hilton Head Island in South Carolina. Follow him on Twitter X @GregoryELucas.
Sparks of Calliope 