The Factory Garden

This quaint haven away from Seeing Eye No sound of the loom now at nature’s call Here on this coarse park bench in deepest fall Gloomy clouds above threatening blue sky. Song of the Blackbird rings out yet so shy Speckled Thrush nags his mate in tuneful squall Lush green lawn an ocean of food to trawl Twisting squirming succulents soon to die. I now will have to end this little verse Clown on a motor mower not at peace Feathered friends scatter to a higher place I look to heaven now in silent curse Back to the weaving shed and all that grease Lunch break in tatters silence without trace. © Harry J Horsman 2010