I

That mound of black - that hunching
Back, breaking, creaking with gritted
Teeth of hour's toil.
Frosted breath fingers her cheeks
And sinks into the branches
That bow and whip her bestraggled hair;
Enraged, fiery crest,
Betraying pain of heaving fibrils in
Wild manifestation.
But so beautiful
Is the meaning, the intention
Of her toil. Wheelbarrow stacked
High with nature's unwanted, spiking,
Verdant leaves whilst her sliding tool
Creates the hole that will seed
An eyeful of pulchritude.

II

Light through
a frosted
pane

shines to
confuse the
seasons, letting

summer live
within a
half-budded

world. Shubert
celebrates and
strokes

the ears of a
passive soul,
played to

a scribbling
audience that
drinks the

silence; drinks the
Blue-Mountain
roast that

licks the
morning
taste-buds.

Do you
cure the broken
cells

or simply serve
to satisfy
the exigency

of a Sunday
lazing and looking
in the garden?

III

But for what would God call
Upon an aching frame to free
His love, except to challenge the
Desire for his blessing, and
The vain desire for control
On Nature's work.

But work she will, and good,
For Nature will bless out eyes -
But hers more so
For her toil.