Monday, 19 July 2021

The Hardy Ones Beloved By Bees

 I gardened once, compulsively,

Which means I shopped obsessively,

And learnt the lovely Latin names,

Of tender things, I grew in frames,

With RHS books close at  hand,

I scoured the internet and planned

My garden as a hiding place,

A dream, a paradise like space.

And yet the work that was required

To keep it as I had in mind

Grew faster than the weeds I'd find

Had killed the rare things which I'd sought

And raised by hand or gladly bought

At great expense.  And only now I understand

As I lie reading in my chair,

Or simply sitting still, to rest,

In put on, tired frailness,

In summer heat and gentle breeze,

That common things are often best:

The roses which sweet scent the air,

The catty smelling elder trees

And even thoughts, as dull as these

Have meaning in their staleness,

Like hardy things beloved by bees.

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