The Romantic Gardener (Poetry)

He sees scarlet in the bud before it splits —
the promise of true colour fills his mind
he hums a hymn of praise and prunes a bush —
the roses in his heart make perfect lines.

He mows the lawn with love — its verdant stripes
a match for the straight borders round each edge
where marigolds lift bold their yellow heads
and periwinkle stars beneath the hedge.

Bright Morning Glory twines along the fence
its eager blooms all faced towards the sun
acknowledging their frailty he accepts
their blue will fade before the day is done.

He’s never lost that childlike sense of awe
in everything that Nature has on show —
the poetry of seasons in his blood
and green the sweetest shade he’ll ever know.

His garden is the source of all his joy —
his constant inspiration through the year
and intuition guides him all the while
he listens to that voice so true and clear —

how birdsong charms the morning after rain
and moonlight breathes its quiet melody —
the miracle of flowers set to fruit
the hours worked by every humble bee.

He watches — aging — weathers like a tree
through Winter’s passion — hurricanes and snow —
toiling to repair the damage done —
he saves — protects — encourages to grow —

helps weave a world of promise — an ideal
of paradise contained — a private plot
that’s almost Eden — cultivated — gleams
in unpolluted innocence... He’s got

the soul of a philosopher with hands
in touch with roots — their system underground
well-hidden — those mysterious unseen
dark energies stored patient and profound.

He conjures up the blossom of each Spring —
his spade a wand that bids grey clouds depart —
too modestly triumphant claims the day
and contemplates the romance of his art.