General Poetry posted April 11, 2016


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The Gardener

by Eric1

Poem of the Month Contest Winner 
He rubbed his back as he arose;
His body ached from head to toes.
The morning chorus played outside
As if to mock him and deride.

Today would be his final day;
Retirement now had come his way.
Through bleary eyes he tied his boots--
Their soles well worn from treading roots.

He donned his well-loved garden coat,
Slight smell of soil and creosote--
The scorch on pocket - where lit briar,
Had almost set his coat on fire.

It fitted like a second skin,
And when the elbows got quite thin,
He covered them with leather patch
As fingers struggled to attach.

Those calloused hands that bore the mark,
Of tools that worked from dawn till dark--
The shears, the knife, the secateurs--
Extensions of those hands so sure.

Harsh cold north winds of sixty years
Had ground in dirt that now besmears
The rugged lines of weathered face
All intertwined like finest lace.

Remained a bachelor all his life;
The garden was his only wife--
His own true love he did create
On Lord and Lady's vast estate.

With back now bent and knees well shot,
Upon the landscape he's a blot.
Least, when he dies he'll get free berth,
With all his bulbs beneath the earth.

Today, he'll hang up fork and spade
and find a cool spot in the shade
until his life is at an end;
then, to God's garden, he'll attend.


Poem of the Month
Contest Winner

Recognized


A briar is a type of smoking pipe
This came to mind while writing my last poem.
Image courtesy of Google.
Pays one point and 2 member cents.


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