The King's Garden

The dandelions danced in a dignified manner as the creeping chickweed contorts itself into a grotesque shape. A high cherry tree looms over the garden in a protective manner, sentient, always listening and always reporting the subject’s actions back to the King.

Light pours in from above and yet there is no sky. No clouds, sun, moon or stars, just a satisfying glow of light to illuminate the garden. Rose sits in the centre, on the pond with her golden feet glistening in the gorgeous blue waters. She looks splendid all in white, her dress as neat as her blonde curls and she sits contently, reading her poem without words.

The Jester, in his patchwork uniform, skips and runs and hops and jumps and leaps and darts and stumbles and prances his way over to Rose, leaving an orderly trail of chaos in his wake.

"Rose, Rose, dressed in clothes. Up and up but you are down. Laugh and laugh but you still frown"

"Oh Jessie, you see that I am not sad. Why must you presume everything must be bad?"

Jessie was not the fool's name, Rose had called him something different each time until she settled on Jessie the Jester, or Jack the Joker. His head rolled around unbound by his neck, his hair dreaded and filthy, his eyes a vacant portal to another realm. Despite his chaotic appearance and maddening behaviour, Rose adored him. He was her only constant companion in the garden.

The lily pads in the pond diligently sail to their destination as the rocks at the bottom accept their fate. From the tallest trees, the leaves synchronize their suicides and fall in time, their corpses building up down below.

"Rose, Rose, where is my nose? I've smelled the rain, but can hear the snows!"

The lunatic flings himself like a ragdoll out of sight and Rose giggles softly.

"How silly." She thought to herself. "And how sad."

A top a twisting tower of ivory that reflected the white light across the land is the King. Taller than any man, a tower himself, with a posture walls would kill for. He looks down at the picturesque garden wrapped in innocence and beauty. The King is in a constant state of mourning, grieving and permanent sorrow was etched into each wrinkle on his skin. All the gold, silk and riches could never subsidies for the allure of his garden.

Its elegance was in its symmetry, its refinement in bloom, home to his delicate daughter, whom only added to its bountiful attractiveness.  He would cry down, shout down, scream down to her but she could never hear. The Jester would hear though, and somehow that made the situation more depressing for the King.

"Rose, Rose, where it goes, nobody knows." The Jester moved with the grace of a wingless wasp in flight and distracted even the old guard tree.

"Jess, you'll make a mess, sit nice and act your best."

The crazed comedian sits with crossed legs motionless as Rose leans over to kiss him on the cheek, a reward for the good behaviour, just as she makes contact on his powdered skin; he springs to his feet like a jittering Jack-in-the-box. Rose fails to contain herself and laughter, giggles and smiles spill out onto the floor.

Like observing ants in an artificial abode, The King watches his garden from above.