| Introduction Whispering Pools, Clouded Puddles was written in 2010 during a period of quiet isolation whilst I was living alone in a static caravan in rural Lincolnshire, working with horses and sharing my life with my two dogs. Having received my Asperger’s diagnosis a few years earlier, I found myself trying to understand not only what the diagnosis meant, but who I really was beneath it. Looking back, I can see that this poem is filled with questions rather than answers. It captures a time when I spent far too much of my energy searching for explanations, trying to untangle my thoughts and understand where I belonged in the world. I have left the original poem exactly as it was written because it remains an honest reflection of that chapter in my life. The companion poem was written many years later, after life had quietly taught me that not every question requires an immediate answer. Some are resolved not through endless searching, but through living, growing and finding purpose in the ordinary moments that gradually shape us. Together, these two poems tell the story of a man who spent years searching for himself, only to discover that the answers he sought were never hidden in distant places. They were quietly waiting to be revealed through the life he had yet to live. |
| Whispering Pools, Clouded Puddles My home is in a long, somewhat ugly metal box, Daily l work with horses, and live with two dogs, No point in glamorising the truth at all, For to even attempt to do so will result in a fall, Slowly l disappear into obscurity by choice, Walked away from society, its cultures and the vogue voice, Isolated in both my mind and also location, Just subjected to my overthinking, a torturous predation! Laying back on my bed, and looking up at the ceiling, Noticing the cobwebs, whilst trying to fathom my feelings! In the background l hear the pulsating rhythm to yet another song, Playing on the television, its application on all night long, Emotions running deep, lodging themselves into my overworking brain Complicated complexities of today, yesterday or tomorrow, always the same, Reflections of time afore when maybe it was good, But yet, unknowing if that itself is truth, And words and thoughts constantly on the move, Bouncing around endeavouring to find the groove, In which they too might find solace, Yet still l lay here, mentally caught in a grimace! Asking myself, honestly, what is happiness? Have l finally acquired the truest definition of this? Or am l too flowing along with the waters of pretence, Just wishing that all of these thoughts and feelings would make sense, Trying to live the simplest of philosophies, And yet this, this is what l am left with? The longest quests of all have l found myself on all these years, Pointless perhaps, l have come to believe, recognising fears, That l am still none the wiser for the answers l seek, For questions l know not, or even have reached, Looking back in time, my lifetime, trying to understand, Many things, but most of all, who l am? I have neither a wife nor a loving partner, again by choice, Fall victim not to loneliness, yet still l know no rejoice, A life that is starting to feel empty and consumed with nothing, Except working with horses and endless searching, My mind constantly spinning around in painful circles, Understanding not whether this empty life is true happiness? Should l be content that so few people see me this way, For so few people do l actually see anyway every day, My mind knows not nor understands how to relax, But does itself injustice by constantly working on the track, Of comprehension into my disorder, Wandering and wondering on how exactly it can alter, My perception further of reality, By swallowing me deeper into the complexity, Of allowing my life to slump into the Aspergic muddles, And yet why do l only think of whispering pools and clouded puddles? © Rory Matier 2010 |
| Still Waters The Second Verse The caravan has long since gone, Its walls now held by time, The horses run in distant fields, Beyond this life of mine. The faithful dogs who shared those days, Still wander through my heart, For love once freely given there, Can never drift apart. I often think about that man, Who lay awake each night, Searching every corner of himself, For understanding’s light. He questioned every passing thought, Each feeling and each fear, As though the answers to his life, Were somehow hidden near. He searched the ceiling for a sign, The puddles for a clue, Believing every whispered breeze, Might tell him what was true. But life has curious ways of teaching, Those who long to know; The answers seldom come at once, They quietly choose to grow. Not through endless questioning, Nor every sleepless night, But in the simple daily work, Of trying to do what’s right. I found them in the robin’s song, The blackbird’s morning call, The scent of earth after the rain, The turning leaves of fall. I found them in neglected gardens, Waiting to be seen, Where beauty often hides itself, Within the overlooked and green. I found them in the kindness shared, With strangers passing through, And in discovering purpose grows, When something isn’t about you. The pools still hold the evening sky, The puddles catch the rain, But now I see reflections there, Without the need for pain. For every ripple has its place, As every life must too; The water never asked my name… It simply showed me Who I already knew. The questions never truly left, Nor did they need to do so; They learnt to walk beside, The life I came to know. And now when rain falls softly down, Upon the garden’s floor, The whispering pools still call to me… But now, They whisper peace, Instead of asking For something more. © Rory Matier 2026 |
| Some poems are written for a moment in time. Others quietly wait for time to answer them. Echoes Through the Garden – The Second Verse revisits poems first written years ago, not to rewrite or replace them, but to continue the conversation. Seen through the eyes of a gardener, a naturalist and the passing of years, each original poem is accompanied by a new companion piece, offering fresh understanding shaped by experience, seasons and the quiet lessons the garden has taught. Together, they become two verses of the same story—one written then, the other written now. |
The Gardener's Curious Journal 