Gardener’s World

Opening the latch,
As I have done so many times before,
I see the changes laid out like the flowerbeds;
Time passes with the chiming of the stable clock -
Breaktime at 10,
Home for lunch at 1,
Finish at 5, or 4, in the winter.
The sun is setting on my time here.

Behind me,
The church has born witness to my aging frame,
Just like this here gate my joints ache
The gate, and this wheelbarrow are oil-able,
But my squeaks, they're silent,
As unobtrusive as this lichen on weathering wood,
I never complain.
I'll never complain.

From this gate
It's a gardener's world;
Seasons come and go,
Flowers, blossoms bloom,
Leaves fall
Snow too,
There's a comforting certainty about it all.
But once I close this gate
What's next?
What do I do?
The graves taunt me to carry on.

Standing here 
My memories are as vivid as the bright yellow laburnum
(which I saved like so many plants from dying alone, in the greenhouse) -
Yellow bridesmaids and flower-girl sashes;
I take my youngest daughter's arm 
Walk her to the door,
Pause for thought, a smile and the string quartet
Then down the aisle we go, for her to be wed.
I try not to think about
The funerals here and death.
Sir Walter (the Colonel), Lady Luttrell too,
I've tended their gardens, gave their rooms a view.

So, I open the gate,
Turn left,
Through the winding wisteria boughs
To my boss's door.
Knock.
Wait,
Just like my children did as carol singers before,
And hand in my notice,
To LIVE more,
Instead.

I'll take pride in the praise I receive on the way
From the public on this, my final, NGS Open Day,
But now is the time for my work-life to cease,
I've earned me the right to some calm and some peace.

(They can grass over my veg garden,
I'm not ready to mow my own grave!)



A Wensley

3.06.23/edited 3.07.23