Phyllis Marianne Gardner

Kingston, Ontario

Gardner, Phyllis Marianne, born June 24, 1908, Bedford, England. Parents: Joe and Sarah Mabel Pearson; Married: Aug. 18, 1934, Wilfrid James Gardner, died Nov. 2, 1994. Children: Penelope Morton, Peter Gardner, Cathy Gardner, Jean Sutherland. Ed. in England, Nursing diploma Guy's Hospital, London, England. Volunteer work in Australia, U.S., and Canada. (Memb.) Alzheimer Society of Kingston, Senior Citizen's Council Inc. I only write when the spirit moves me, and I classify poetry among my most important hobbies, i.e., music and water color landscapes.

Sunrise In Delphi May 1972
We stood on Mount Parnassus
Gazing down toward the gulf of Corinth.
The olive groves wound downhill to the cleft
between the hills. The distant bleat of lambs blended
with the tinkle of the bells around their necks.
The first notes of birdsong stirred the air.
The scent of thyme was in our nostrils
We clung together for warmth in the early morning chill.

Suddenly the sun rose, and a golden shaft of light
Flashed through the gap and up the hillside
Turning the olive trees from black to green.
Golden light touched the vineyards
The peaceful beauty trembled
As from the U.S. base, three jets roared upward
and thundered across the hills.
Early morning sounds came from the village.
Dogs barked - voices murmured.
The day had dawned.
We turned and went in search of coffee.

Epitaph
The autumn lingered day by day.
The trees still held their leaves
Golden against an azure sky.
The air was still. A squirrel ran across the lawn.

In a quiet room down the hall
The only sound was shallow breathing.
This was his last day on earth
The tired old man lay dying.
His gentle face relaxed,
No worried lines or fretful movements
Just a stately calm.
A prince among men.

At sunset the sky clouded
The birds were restless.
A wind blew and shook the branches,
And the leaves fell in a golden shower
As if the very trees wept at his passing.
That night he died and when the dawn broke
It was winter.

Pensee
The purple pansies turn their faces to the sun.
All summer they will dominate the bed.
The tulips, radiant, came and went.
The lilies-of-the-valley, too, have fled
Until next year. Such beauty cannot last!

Why do those pansy faces stir my soul?
They've no exotic scent nor slender shape,
Just a round cyclopean face gazing outward
Watching. Ever watching.

Perhaps they're tokens of past loves,
Down paths I might have trod
Had we not met. So they remain
Wistful shadows of the might-have-been
Had things been otherwise.
The fates were kind to me when our paths merged.