Ground Forces
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A garden is created from a patch of barren land.
It could lay on basalt, chalk or oolite, or perhaps St.Agnes Sand.
Its first few years are learning, a time of  growth and toil.
A slowly evolving character, deep within the soil.

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The garden soaks up strength with drops of springtime rain.
It grows plants and personality, and there's never one the same.
It takes on independence, rebels against owner's  rules.
Grows weeds or flowers unexpectedly, till its ardour cools. 

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Maturity is a glorious phase of colour scent and feel.
The battles fought on bed and border, seem a touch unreal.
Effortless perfection seems simple to attain, 
A visit to the Garden centre, a pleasure not a pain.

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Years turn round and the garden grows in absolute precision.
The work gets tough but help is just a small employing decision. 
Teamwork is the basis of many an enterprise.
Gardener, owner and garden, coexistence without surprise.

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Then for no reason, no reason that you can see,
The world moves on and you're left behind as if clearing up the tea.
The edges of precision within your humble plot
Now look ragged, rough and shoddy, and the golden rods are not.

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Suddenly barrenness beckons from underneath the loam.
Basalt, chalk and oolite are calling for their own.
No matter what is done, no matter how hard you try
This garden's day has come, let it quietly die.

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For you or me or us or them, it would be end of game.
Bury us deep beneath the ground or consume us in the flame.
But not the renewable garden, it can reappear.
The taming of the land again, year by year by year.
Keith Murphy©