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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