OFFICIAL CREATIVE WRITING

The Childhood Garden

Then:

I am its beauty. Dominating ivory gates stand before me in all of their glory, tumbling vines of flowering honeysuckle cascade down in verdant hues of green variety, nature’s unleashed dreams let free upon the sun-baked metal that awaits the touch of my fingers to be opened. Approaching closer, I am instantly flooded with the sweet, intoxicating scent of honeysuckle flowers in mid-bloom, their fruity tonality greeting me with the familiarity of a friend from long ago. A meadow of freshly cut grass lays ahead, it’s presence uplifting beneath the goldening effect of the summer sky. A riot of colour bursts its way from beneath the greenery as the snowdrops, buttercups and ladylike tulips ignite an inner smile before bursting up to spread their wings of colour and decorate the afternoon sky. Their presence like candle flames, illuminating the meadow that lies far beyond. Afternoon light streams in through the branches of neighbouring trees in both illuminating and shadowy beams that dance upon the skin of my arms, igniting burning sensations that linger long after the sun’s descent. Petals of creamy pink and white rain down like soft lullabies, their blossoms bursting out from neighbouring trees to adorn the greenery in a fluttery wreath. The great arms of aged cherry blossom trees sit delicately upon their towering trunks, limbs that stretch out across the summer sky, clothed in the silky pink petals that spill upon the ground. Trees line the boundaries of the garden, their looming branches an external presence that watches over me as I trample over the vivacious green grass. A soft breeze stirs the fallen petals surrounding me, their gentle sway like a beautiful symphony, a melody without rhythm, music without sound. As I trample forwards through the meadow of flourishing virescent hues, the soft lining of exposed skin beneath my feet disturbs the small beads of water that sit delicately upon the tips of the grass blades. The sweet, surrendering, yet almost sickly smell of summer flowers cut through the soft scent of the morning’s dewy grass awakens me from the trance of absolute beauty that I find myself completely absorbed by. Swerving back and forth, the path I follow takes unpredictable turns as I meander further within the depths of the garden. Mighty pine trees arch overhead, their thick roots intertwined beneath the pea grey shingle path, protruding out beneath the brown dirt that lines the stone. Beams of golden light hit the curls if vibrant ivy that lines the vast pathway, with the recent rain leaving a glossy sheen on the gentle tips of the greenery. I hold my hands up to feel the gentle warmth of the sun overhead, as a brilliant shaft of light illuminates the path that takes me onwards towards the crystal fountain which lays just ahead. I dip my hand into the blue to feel the cool sensations which instantly wrap themselves around the skin of my fingers. The water moves softly around my outstretched fingers, caressing cooly, eddying in their wake. I pull my hand out and watch the drops, both opaque and transparent at the same time, slowly fall upon the stone pathway, the gentle drum upon the ground hypnotizing my mind. And as the night begins to approach my feet lead me back through the overlay of sprawling trees, their rough roots which stretch out over the muddy landscape stroking the skin of my inner foot as the condensation of previous nights feels its way between my toes. Dappled with the fading mist of white clouds, the sky stretches on past me, like a river of blue, bright and soft all at once. So I pause, let my feet join in the serenity of quietness, tilt my head upwards and breathe, enjoying the nothing that is everything, relishing in the last beauty of day before the darkness overtakes it. With my head tilted high I slowly melt into the darkened sky, as if it were a canvass of lost dreams consuming me as it once did to the stars that died long ago. It takes me just as it takes the beauty of the garden, transforming it into something different, yet still beautiful. As the moon replaces the suns light I hold on to the hope of tomorrow, that when the morning comes the sun will once again caress the clouds and inject its lively qualities into the garden. So holding on to this thought of the inevitable tomorrow, I continue on my path homeward before the darkness fully consumes me.

Now:

I am its destruction. With my hands touching the cold metal of the overlooking ivory gates, a hostile gaze overwhelms me as I try to enter, a pang of instant guilt which plagues my mind. The sweet taste of nectar from the honeysuckle blossoms, whose remains still adorn the ivory gate, welcome me back with open arms from our time spent apart. Grasping the metal with both hands, I push open the gates will all my strength, the effort exhausting and consuming. As if on hinges, the gate creaks open, crying out in hopelessness and sorrow with it’s last breath. Fear arises within me and the hairs on my back erupt causing shivers to spiral throughout my body, for what lies beyond is unknown. The metal gates bang against their hinges, as I step forward the magnitude of loss sweeps over me. The meadow which once flourished with the virescent hues of a summer day lays overgrown in tussocks, each one lifeless and slightly yellowing at the tips. Interspersed with weeds and meadow flowers, each tuft lays flattened against each other from years of neglection. Reaching downwards, my fingers stroked the limp stalk of a meadow flower, its petals drooping downwards towards the bare soil. Its wilted remains lay crisp and forgotten from the years that have passed by, deceased yet still alive in its own way. The flower wilts in my grasp, its petals browning yet their slight pink tint still lingers. They scrape the skin of my fingers before falling towards the grass, their time has come to an end, for petals once fallen are fallen forever. I watch for a moment as they dance in the air before focusing my gaze towards the trees surrounding me. They lay still, like the petrified remains of fossilised plant material lost to the underworld. With their branches dangling over one another, it looked as if they were a deformed corpse left to rot high up in the treetops. Dark spores of green moss cling to the lower branches, their filthy grasp extending within the crevasses and hanging like cobweb curtains as if they had claimed the garden as their own. Cherry blossom trees line the graveyard of beauty, once so beautiful now lay the barren wasteland of lost dreams, childhood innocence gone to die. The distant howl of memories spent here in the years passed echoes throughout my head, their invasive presence, temporary but powerful. With my inner eyes, I see the smiles and eyes that once gazed at this garden with intense wonder, they focus on the branches that swayed gently in the wind long ago and the creamy petals of blossoms that burst from the lower branches of the trees. For these memories are not ghosts but rather remnants of the past that yearn to tell the garden that she is still loved even though she was left to gently fade away in the years that followed her abandonment. An archway of trees looms overhead, each gaze watching me with disappointment for what my abandonment has done to the garden, each step I take remaining careful and precise so that I do not disturb the garden in her resting place. Footprints lay trodden in the dirt coated pathway, each set continuing on for what seems like forever and unlocking a memory of day gone by. Memories of a childhood left behind chase me around every corner, with every turn following me, never leaving, threatening to plague my memory with every step. Fingers caressing the wilted ivy, now overtaken by thickets of tumbling thorns, I am reminded of the beauty that was once here is now gone. As the thorns dig their way between the layers of my skin, the flesh splits, thick scarlet beads crawling as brisk as they travel. Etching red streaks that crisp over time, the delicate leaves now lay coated with a fresh sheen of newly dispersed blood, corrupted with the essence of the being responsible for their downfall. The path is darker than I remembered, cast into shadow by tall mossy pines on either side, with an aura of death encompassing each trunk. My gaze meets the sepia tones of light overcast by fog, their rays caress the treetops in an attempt to shine through the branches, but the now thickly grown pines refuse to allow them through, their hope of life now lost like their leaves which lay abandoned upon the path floor. And as I reach the forest path’s end, my gaze flickers up towards the now darkening sky. The thick cloud, grey as stone pulled from the quarry, gives the monochromatic world a claustrophobic feel. The fountain ahead lays shielded from view with a thick blanket of fog. The closer I step the more overwhelmed I become, the magnitude of loss consuming me as it did to the garden. And as it takes its full effect, tears begin to tickle their way down the sides of my face, flowing unchecked as they drip further towards the edge of my chin before splattering upon bone dry granite, now lined with the silty residue of dried dirt. With the darkening sky above I remain tormented just as the garden has through my decisions. For the past cannot repeat itself and the once flourishing greenery will stay neglected, never to return to prosperity. If it falls I shall fall with it.