The Garden

by Abby Meyer

The garden here is half its size.

The place where the blue swing was
has crumbled down to sand.

Looking here, I wonder what happens
to the earth the sea charms away.

It whistles to the rocks,
I have come to join you.

Further down, by the cove,
the water laps at ankles of children

whose grandparents once
dove down to reach it.

It sings to them of ice,
of being part of an expanse
that polar bears could walk upon.

It whistles to the garden,
I have come to join you.

And the old shed falls
into its arms with a sigh.