The Lost Prince




Nothing dwelt in the garden,

Neither chipmunk, nor woodchuck,

Nor high nesting robins.

Something, it seemed had warned them away.

Even butterfly wings were few,

And bees fed quickly and fled.

Foraging rabbits and deer kept to the woodlands.


Once the boy wandered freely within,

His inner eye balancing color and size,

Melding hills and valleys of blossoms’ sweet scent

Before each seed pressed into the soil.

His limited world a cause of delight,

His creation, a paradise.


Those there were who called him odd,

His paintings peculiar,

His body too large for his age

Held a brain shocked and shaking,

And a mind slow to learn.

With a gait all asunder, he marched as a soldier.

His laugh, free as thunder,

Held a meaning unknown.


He learned so little of the vast world beyond,

Meanness and anger, the world at war,

Meant nothing to him.

His kin, the kings, he knew.

The thrill of a trainride, a trumpet’s song,

A royal banquet forbiddingly glimpsed,

A kind word from a stranger who found him not strange,

Brightened his eyes.


Yet his garden, Lalla, and Georgie, his brother,

Were the core of his world,

And innocence kept him joyful

‘Til his young life cut short,

Let the garden grow free,

And a black pall of grief spread o’er it.