The Gardener

THE GARDENER

 

An intricate garden grows around

A careful gardener with soiled hands;

Plants crystallise from secret soil

And all the weeds are broken down

Withered and brown

 

Patterns of colour, of stroke smooth slabs

Of burning red and drowning blue

Spread like a puzzle to understand

Or copy almost true

 

Scent swarms the leaves

The bees are drawn

And no-one hears the fall of trees

 

Reason has died, the gardener’s gone

And vigorous weeds invade the beds

While purple and yellow snowflake shapes

Tangle and clash across the ground

And bindweed grows around

The rake forgotten where it stood

 

No pattern now but riot of green

Orange and mauve confusors’ dance

That somehow rhythms to a word

The gardener had never heard.

 

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3 Comments

  1. Powerfully done.

    Reply
  2. Rhythms to a word/….that turn of phrase holds.

    Reply
  3. Thanks, both. You’ve picked out a key phrase, Neel. There are four or five possible interpretations of this poem, but hey, any or none will do and maybe it goes beyond interpretation.

    I just about get away with inventing a word that ought to exist – confusor.

    Reply

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