My grandpa squired me through his realm,
New Camelot where he did reign.
He scuffed along the flagstone path
while gripping tight his hardwood cane.
My learned docent's spiel began
as we walked through a trellised gate
vined thick with flowers violet.
"Clematis climbs, just loves to plait,
but see those bushes by the wall?
The white ones are gardenias.
Such glossy leaves, a showy lot
unlike the pink camellias."
He brought me to his centerpiece,
a sector where select plants grew.
A dozen types of roses thrived
beneath bright sun, his strict purview.
"These roses are like fine French wines
which take great care, a gentle hand.
Their perfume's boldest when in bud.
Just pinch this petal--supple, grand!"
As we continued on our tour,
he showed off blooms in raised up beds.
Perennials and annuals--
a blend of yellows, blues, and reds.
Our route, smooth-edged with boxwood hedge,
led to hydrangea, many hues:
hibiscus trees in porcelain pots
on patio near sculpted yews.
"This formal garden surely is
largess from Nature, why I live.
To share her beauty unsurpassed,
what time I've left I freely give."
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Author Notes
The painting is courtesy of Google images.
This poem is a partner to another I recently posted, Grandma in Her Garden. It is a tribute to my father who had a formal garden in every home he ever owned. He loved showing it off to anyone who walked by, but especially his granddaughter. Enjoy!
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