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The Gardener

written by: Arikui

 

She came each Saturday at half past nine.
The girls, when they were little, would look out
and shout to let me know.

I had to stop them watching
from the bedroom window,
wanting to wave.

In rain or snow, she’d only stay
for long enough to say a prayer beside the grave,
Then leave reluctantly.

But in the spring she brought her gardening tools,
planted bulbs and trimmed the grass
to let the flowers poke through.

Crocus in the spring, summer allium,
a hundred others that
I couldn’t name.

But always colours.
Sharp primaries or pastel hues,
covering the earth like a child’s quilt.

She missed a week, then two,
then came one final time to stay
and lie beneath her garden.

The flowers have wilted. Winter's here,
hardening the earth, painting it white.
In the spring new colours will show through

Arikui

Arikui

John has spent forty years sitting behind a desk tapping at the keys of a computer for ten hours a day and writing about Investment Banking. Freed from the yoke of the capitalist oppressor he now sits behind a desk for five hours a day and writes about whatever he likes. Then he goes and walks the dog.
Arikui

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