Working in gardens
Tangle of weeds menaces at me
Parched soil where weeds are concreted in
Someone’s put some peat down- what about the vanishing peat bogs of the world?
Gardens that soak up hours of work
And seems to laugh at me, ineffectual as I am
Then it’s not over still for
I go home to the disaster that is my garden
And the apocalypse that I call my allotment
When I go for a walk in the bluebell woods
“Oh, what a lot of weeds!” is all I say
Whilst others are in raptures over the flora and fauna
I think I could escape the urge to garden
In a desert perhaps
And when I go to a tropical rainforest
“Oh what a lot of trees! It looks such a mess!”
Have I been cursed
That I cannot enjoy a brief lie down in my own garden
But instead must toil, throat dry, under a weary sun
Beating mercilessly down
Giving me sunstroke and skin cancer in one fell swoop
But that’s too far!
This garden is so manicured and neat now
That I feel the only weed
The plants stand tall and proud and healthy
Whilst this human piece of flotsam called me
Stands aghast, wilting, wishing for
Harsh concrete lines and reflective glass
And the endless roar of traffic
Or a jet taking off on the runway’s apron
That’s me.



Copyright © Christopher J. Hudson 2013