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
Copyright © Harry Horsman | Year Posted 2010
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment