The Gardener.
I can remember far enough back when every Winter
Brought with it numbing frost and hanging icicles as big as stalactites;
And every early Spring ...thin, disheveled snow still stretched out in confusion upon
The ragged ground.
And I recall how you would always say: "soon ...all the flowers will want to bloom."
It was then the first green tips of snowdrop, iris and crocus, peeking tentatively through, would compete
In desperate haste to be the first to crank open their little petals
When crouching defiant and resolute amidst the blasted, freezing air:-
A scattering of golden yellows drenched with all the liquid richness of the glittering streams reflected sunshine -
Deep purples with a touch of indescribable indigo lent by dusky woodlands before acquiescing to impatient twilight -
Purest whites whiter than the last undiscovered vale's high drifting, unblemished cloud.
But as I once replied back to you: "yes ...but now those seasons no longer take their natural turn;
Even though the crocus and snowdrop are still content to arrive on time!".
Often I wonder aloud when I think no one is listening, did you ever actually despair of making a proper gardener out of me?
However, in reality I just accept that we both knew ...I just didnt really have what it took to be a gardener of any sorts.
Yet, you, I know, will soon be gone. But I, unlike the rebellious seasons ...have to remain.
Then, to be stripped naked, paraded, raked and diminished in front of the whole World.
The terrible blood-letting thorns, be rest assured, to be suffered in silent, graven dignity;
You would not have it done any other way; You would, after all, have it done right.
That which were part of both of us. This which is merely trace to be left for me.
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