In The Garden
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
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.
the ears of a
silence; drinks the
cure the broken
or simply serve
of a Sunday
lazing and looking
in the garden?
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.