to describe the garden.
There was no organised effort
or orderly bloom of flowers.
No wanderer would spare it
a second glance.
The butterflies and beetles had
long bored of its unkemptness.
Between the overgrown undergrowth
and the undergrown overgrowth,
the dragonflies, though,
loved to play hide and seek
to the occasional birdsong.
And in the midst of the green trees,
and the yellow dodders,
the wild and tame flowers bloomed,
randomly –
violets, yellows, pinks, reds,
less today, more tomorrow,
whenever they pleased,
however they pleased.
This garden has stood around
for as long as one could remember.
The new gardens
were easier to maintain-
well decorated and colourful,
with all the bees and the buzz,
no moss, no weed,
no jarred, lightning struck tree,
not too much work.
And when the owner got bored
the new garden was sold
to someone else, who started afresh.
It was hard to believe that
the old garden, too, had been new
once upon a time.
That rubble of stones in the middle
was once a glorious marble fountain
centred among the yellow
rosebushes, pruned to perfection.
Neat rows of almond and magnolia
led to silver birch and maple,
which tried to hide in vain.
The gardener’s efficiency
and the owner’s appreciation
lasted for as long as they did.
But fondness and pride prevented them
from handing it over
to someone else.
So, long after they’d withered,
like leaves, lives and seasons,
the old garden remained
the way it was.
Always.
Magnificent.
Wild serenity in the serene wilderness.
Pretty never was a congruous term
to describe the garden.