My Poetry. Echoes of Eden.

It is not found upon a map,
In ink or weathered chart,
But hidden in the quiet gap
Between the beating heart.
It isn’t paved in heavy gold
Or walled in shimmering glass,
But in the stories yet untold
That whisper through the grass.

It’s in the breath of morning mist
Before the sun is high,
A world by amber light first kissed
Beneath a waking sky.
It’s in the silver, sudden rush
Of mountain streams at play,
And in the deep, velvet hush
That ends a weary day.

A garden where the shadows heal
And time forgets to run,
Where everything we see and feel
Is woven into one.
No winter chill, no autumn grief,
No petal falls in vain,
For every branch and every leaf
Is washed of every stain.

But paradise is more than sight,
More than a verdant shore;
It is the soul’s internal light,
A calm at centre-core.
To be at peace with where you stand,
To need no more than this—
To find within a grain of sand
A doorway to the bliss.

So do not seek the distant isle
Or stars beyond your reach,
It’s in a stranger’s sudden smile,
Upon a common beach.
For Eden isn't lost to time
Or locked behind a gate;
It’s in the spirit's quiet climb
To love instead of hate.


(c) William Sinclair Manson.