Impotent Gardener

Impotent Gardener

He fancied himself the master of plenty,

For his garden was fair as expected,

Most precious of plants,

Fine bred and fair stance,

Stood verdant and proudly presented.

 

Yet rarely a bloom would spring from this plot,

Despite their many buds forming,

His toil and his pain,

Was harvest in vain,

Few flowers would greet any morning.

 

“I water,” he avered, “I feed them aplenty,”

“And yet promised buds do not burst,”

His nightmare of fears,

Reduced him to tears,

For his efforts seemed viciously cursed

 

He entreatied his roses, cajoled them and bullied,

Pried open a few with great care,

He begged and he swore,

He clawed and he tore,

Then flung down his tools in despair.

 

In vain, alas, they would not part,

Nor willingly grace him with scent,

In his nighttime shroud

He cried out loud

“What else can I do? I am spent!”

 

To his broken dreams the plants did whisper,

Their lament left him undone,

“You crowd with your boots,

You trample our roots,

You block us out from the sun.”

 

“Stand back from your work,” said the fairest rose,

“You have shared all you can give,

Let us grow in the light,

Let us breathe with our might,

Let us ramble, please let us live.”

 

In awe, the Gardner let them be,

Stood aside and gave his work room,

His plants fed replete,

The leaves drew their heat,

Then burst in a shower of bloom.

 

 

16 April 2003

 

You might imagine this has a little more to do with people than plants!!

Copyright Pierre Nunns