I write poems. Some are complete rubbish but sometimes they come together. This one has a well known poem deliberately tacked into the end. I make no apologies for it.
Once upon a garden
I fancied myself a gardener once,
Knew a thing or two about the soil
And how to foil each loathsome weed and pest.
Quoted Ph levels with the best.
I won prizes for my flowers
And for lofty towers of spuds and carrots
Artfully displayed at local shows.
Any gardening problem? “Ask her; she knows!” they said.
Then one year, I got fed up and let it go to waste.
Decided all the hard work was
No longer to my taste. That my joints didn’t like it.
Let’s see what it can do without me, I thought.
But suddenly nothing knew its place.
There was sedition in the flower beds!
All manner of wild plants reared their heads
And battled for the space with F1 hybrids of less swarthy disposition.
Hollyhocks rusted; no rose could be trusted
Not to ramble unattended in an orgy with Wild Ivy on the fence.
Subtle hues no longer blended, and every corner the eye offended.
Where beauty had once reigned, there was no sense.
When folks looked down their noses; said “what happened to your garden?”
I felt I had to beg their pardon for the mess it had become, my lovely plot.
My excuses sounded lame; there was no-one else to blame
For the fact it had so badly gone to pot.
So I set to with a will and employed my former skill
To put it all to rights and bring back order.
Having pulled out weed and thistle, and with soil clean as a whistle
The eye could rest with joy on every border.
And I shall keep it so, for, as once a better poet said:
“A garden is a lovesome thing, God wot!
Rose plot,
Fringed pool,
Ferned grot,
The veriest school
Of peace; and yet the fool
Contends that God is not,
Not God! In gardens! When the eve is cool?
Nay, but I have a sign;
'Tis very sure God walks in mine”.
Thomas Edward Brown.