No Gardens Left

The sun beamed down on the garden of Mrs. Daisy Greene. The long
lawn spanned out like a giant living carpet, which the trees and
shrubbs that ran along its edge hung over and stroked with the breeze.
The rose bushes were in full bloom, and their blood red petals were
outstreched reaching up to sap the sunlight of its life giving energy.
The thorns down the stems guarding against any but the most respected
animals, defending the petals from anything that could mar the blood
red satin. The Oak tree that stood by the rear gate looked like a
mighty fair ground candy-floss, its soft rounded leaves swaying in the
sunlight, its acorns begining to develop, the life being restored and
the new generation being created while the tree still stood in its
prime. In its branches two birds could be heard calling to each other,
singing their conversations like in an opera, and what an opera it was.
Soft and melodic like the woodwinds when it wanted to be, yet sharp and
direct like the dramatic violin chorus when the talk took a turn, and
loud a pompouse like the brass while the male was musically beating his
chest.

Next to it was the old tool shed, its door lopsided, its roof cracked
and rain beaten, and next to that, towards the tree a spade and a fork
lazed the summer away. The fork standing up straight in the ground, the
spade leaning against the shed, like a pair of old friends talking over
a drink. Further down the garden, standing erect in the middle of the
lawn was a fountain whose water dropping, together with the birds made
up the only sounds in the garden. The water droplets that metamorphosed
through the air fell into the pool where they mingled and socialised in
with the rest before they were swept around by the motor for another
dive.

A bumblebee danced its way through the roses, stopping periodically
for a sip of the life giving nectar, before it buzzed off to plant the
former flowers seed in the next's womb. It made its way along the bed,
past the fried egg plants, the mace like hyacynths, the star studdied
dandilion clocks swaying, spreading their spinning, dancing seeds along
the wind paths towards a new, unknown garden, and a new undiscovered
world. Nothing could compare with this garden this day - it was life
personified.

On the northern most end of the garden was the house. A mediocre
Victorian country house, although only mediocre compared to most
remaining Victorian country houses, compared to anything in the city it
would be considered a castle. In the extended conservatory sat Mrs.
Daisy Greene.

Her name and her were made for each other. She had snow white hair
that came from her head like the petals of a daisy, while her face
beamed and shone like its yellow center. And the green? Well, her hands
were green, or her fingure's at least. Her garden was tended and loved
and cared for and supported. Its life was found within the old lady
that lived to see it flourish. She was like Arther over her domain, if
she was well the garden bloomed and was fresh, yet if she was feeling
her age, or if, for some reason the colour was gone from her cheeks,
then the roses lost their shine or the mighty oak drooped its braches
as if offering them as aid.

When the social workers asked why she worked so hard on her garden she
would often remind them that 'it will be here long after I'm dead and
gone. I feel I must leave the planet something. It's put up with me for
fifty years, I owe it my garden if nothing else. Yes, it will be hear
long after I'm gone, but I won't go until its perfect.' But the fifty
years turned into fifty-five, and then the fifty into sixty and then
onto seventy, yet still Daisy Greene would not give up on her
garden.

The men from the old peoples home came to see her, to tell her than
she really should think of spending the last of her savings with them,
and spending her few remaining years in the peace of the rest home. She
thanked them, and made them tea and cakes but insisted that she could
never leave her garden. They left eventually and stopped bothering her,
but as they walked down the path for the last time, one said to the
other 'It amazes me how some people keep going, can't she see we are
offering her safety and security.' But already Daisy was sitting under
the oak tree, in the bench, protected from the midday sun.

The other man replied 'I know, but it amazes me how young she still
thinks she is.' he said this next bit loudly, so as to be heard even in
doors - 'She's nearly eighty you know.'

'Never.' replied the other as they left in the car, once again without
Daisy's savings. Not that she had much left anyway, it had gone on her
garden, and as she sat in it she knew why. The tree sheltered her from
the sun and wind, the daisies smiled up at her from the grass, while
the Dandylions with their gold crowns saluted her with the broad leaves
as she passed. The Roses were the life, while the birds in the trees
sang their opera's to the beat on the rain in the fountain. It was all
here today, all together. The carpet of grass shone and glistened,
while the water droplets danced through the air like shooting stars.
The Birds were merry, the oak stood tall. Even the shed took on a
certain pride in its weather worn scars. The garden shone like no other
and so now Daisy died.

She lay back in her chair, looking over her garden. 'You will be hear
long after I'm gone,' She muttered to herself with her final
breaths.

And the Garden wept.

Their mother was dead. Yet remembering the old ladies dying wish it
stood tall and proud. The grass, the tree, the fountain. The old
friends stopped their talk to remember their master. The Dandylions
stood tall, but hung their golden crowns in remembrance of the old
lady. The Birds' opera became a melencholic tragedy, while the two
creatures cried over their fallen Lord, yet remembered only her care
and love and devotion. And the Roses, one young one in particular could
not hold back their grief, and just for a second a single bloody tear
fell, floating to the ground as they wept for their dead.