This is our Garden.
Come in, come in. Let me show you round.
We shall walk, together, bare feet kissed by Grass,
And talk and turn our faces to the sun.
Under the silver birch,
Is the garden of remembrance, where we shall sit
Side by side with those long gone.
Souls revealed in shyly smiling hellebores
That hang their praying heads,
Despairing of the disco-dancing daffodils
And ageing Aunt Aquilegia in her frilly dress.
Old favourites all, that never die
While tender fingers love them still.
Across the rickety bridge, wrapped tight round oak
Hides a battered philosopher’s bench,
With care-worn feet obscured by primrose and wild violets.
Here we shall drop wise thoughts into the brook below
Then chase them through the field of campions and alkanet
And gallop down the hill
To where brook meets river
Under the pussy willow.
And we shall play Pooh Sticks
With our finest thoughts,
Until, revised, we let them flow into the sea to sail
For all eternity.
A captured moment on the sun-drenched terrace
To catch our breath and soak in sun,
Playing hawk eye with the buzzard eyeing us
As he floats and glides on warm waves blowing in from the west.
And then he’s off. He has no need for you and me.
We’ll head towards the glass house gleaming in the evening sun,
And I will show you my heart if you show me yours.
We shall drown in the heady scent of soil and toil
And water drops like diamonds on serried seedlings
That will both feed and paint a picture of a thousand-coloured Heaven.
Then we shall sit under the blood-red beech
And I will pour you wine.
We shall not speak, you and I,
Just turn our heads like tennis lovers,
This way and that, and back again,
Drinking life and love and wine
In celebration of our dear friend Gaia.
And from here, we shall see them coming,
Those men who act like Gods.
Empty men with heavy boots
That bruise the grass with their ambition.
They carry guns and papers that they forged
To give them rights to poison lands not theirs
And copyright our seeds and cure the soil
With the blood of the little man
Who is a fool and doesn’t understand.
And, though their voices carry on the wind,
We shall not listen. We shall sit and drink
Until our thirst is quenched and the sun goes down.
We shall drink to the bottom of the bottle
And spit the lees at them,
For we are Foolish little men
And this is our garden.
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