The gardener rakes leaves and his thoughts don't rest,
His hands weed Watsonias but his mind is obsessed
he swipes at flies that dance merry on his head
and combats his thoughts by reframing what was said.
The sun pinches the skin on the back of his neck
and he shapes the Petosperum reaching over a deck
His jaws tense as the shears slide
as he cuts back the tree and prunes his pride
The sun and the rain has spurned early birth
of unseasanoble growth, unseasonable work.
But the gardener has a question which follows him today
that when seeds are planted and soils are tilled,
the sprout that grows, will it ever be his?
The sun that shines and water which falls,
to feed the stem from which nature's womb grows,
will the gardener ever be able to sit back and say,
'i grew this and wanted my garden this way'.
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