Death of a gardener

He beat death often, once
he flew across the Southern Sea,
he ditched his plane
came up unhurt, not even scars,
but in suspense
if he’d survive the war, or if
death catches him unripe,
still pink and eager for

the food he loved, he craved,
for he was French and food meant
everything.
After the war he dug his plot.
On rich black soil he grew
the finest vegetables,
fruit and flowers he shared with neighbors.
To the very end of 86 long years
he went on digging, stumbling, falling

and died, hit by a bug,
alas in hospital. Its ward
was filled with old and fragile people
awaiting death and asking
if snowdrops showed

and early daffodils and if
the leeks still carried leaves.
The sky was icy blue,
Yet spring had left its scent
where he lay dead,
his face at ease as well
as his frail hands.

People sang hymns in church
of “all things beautiful”
for him, the gardener,
and on his coffin lay
his carrots, juicy onions
and his much loved leeks
tied in with rosemary and parsley,
their green gaiety
clashing with the pale faces
of solemn pall bearers.

I knew his nickname,
when he was much younger.
They called him "Groper".
I was never sure
of what he groped. I think of pears
and apples and ripe cherries,
or may be pumpkins
which he grew each year.

An early love had dried and lost its gloss.
That’s why he lived alone.
He used to wave across
his sunlit garden. Once he tried
to hug me, lure me
deep into his ardor.
Still in my kitchen larder
tempt his apple sauce,
his Seville orange jams
and pickled onion treat.
I wave to him in spirit
while I eat.