He knows, sure as his dog,
who follows his every step,
that pretty soon, it will rain...
as beneath a bruised,
St. Martin’s sky, he falls
to his knees, to the cries
of Lily-in-the-Valley,
in a stranglehold of bindweed.
Without him, he is certain
these beloved trees and plants
would not survive, nor would
the hill, the grass, the verge,
he calls his own, for they would
lose their reason to stay green,
and his birds – the skylark
and the thrush, their will to sing.
As is his way, he is bound
to leave all his affairs
in order, including this soil
he’d dug, planted and nurtured
over the ages. His roots run
deep, and he is only too aware,
when that moment comes,
he must pull them out cleanly.
Already, he feels the pain.
Comments
skinner_jennifer | April 16, 2011 - 14:49
Hi Tina,
another great poem from you. I do love to discover
who these people are in the poems you write. I have
an instinct that this is about your husband, but
then I could be wrong.
And I know exactly what you mean about the bindweed,
we have loads of it in our garden, it does look
pretty when the white flower comes out in summer, but
it strangles every other plant it comes into contact
with, yes very difficult to keep under control.
Yes where would nature be, without the tender loving
care of a human.
Thankyou for another beautiful read.
Jenny.
Silver Spun Sand | April 16, 2011 - 15:06
Actually, Jenny, this poem is about a gardener that we 'inherited' in the house we used to live in. His name was Ernie, and he was eighty years old and he'd been employed there ever since he was sixteen! He carried on doing our garden for the next seven years, bless him, and about a year later he passed away, but we shall never forget him. 'Salt of the earth', as they say. It was never 'our' garden, it was always 'his';-)
Many thanks for reading. Glad you enjoyed.
Tina
maggyvaneijk | April 16, 2011 - 22:26
Beautiful imagery, I especially love: as beneath a bruised, St. Martin’s sky. I love it even more after reading the above comment, a truly stunning tribute.
Silver Spun Sand | April 17, 2011 - 06:48
Maggy - many, many thanks;-
Tina
camilla | April 17, 2011 - 19:37
I inherited a garder too and tend him carefully as he is in his 70s now.
Silver Spun Sand | April 17, 2011 - 20:46
Hi there, Camilla. Many thanks for reading. If he's anything like ours, he's worth his weight in gold...and some;-)
Tina
hilary west | April 17, 2011 - 21:02
A touching poem of a dying man, a gardener too. Nicely told SSS.
Silver Spun Sand | April 17, 2011 - 21:06
Many thanks, indeed, hilary. More than appreciated.
SSS;-)
Dark Fox | April 18, 2011 - 09:40
This is an amazing piece of writing. My dad was a gardener but had to give up due to health problems, this is how he felt about some of the gardens he did. He is currently doing our front garden that has been neglected for a while and it looks wonderful.
This poem reminds me of my dad, so thank you.
Silver Spun Sand | April 18, 2011 - 10:40
Dark Fox, your dad sounds quite some man;-) Many thanks to you for your lovely comment. Have a sunny week.
Tina
Kahdai | April 18, 2011 - 20:42
lovely one T x
Silver Spun Sand | April 18, 2011 - 21:01
Many thanks, Kahdai.
T x