The cottage

Left to her own device

mother nature had risen triumphant,

the riot of colour, mis-matched,

mis-aligned, doubtless a red-flagged

affront to the long gone hand of

the previous too careful owner.

To me, unnerved by the ways of 

such assiduous cultivation, there 

was beauty in such disorder; 

and the vying of the natural 

order of things with the defeated 

remnants of imposition gave rise to 

journey's end, so I wrote the cheque.

They say that nothing stays the same,

but they do not know the little cottage.

The riot of colour remains, only a small

stone pathway daring to intrude,

used by the postman and the odd stray

who occasionally passes this way.

Always, they remark on how lovely the

garden is, marvel at the hours of work gone

into such a creation, regretful they have so

much to do in their busy, modern world

and that there are not enough hours left

in the day to achieve such perfection. 

I should explain of course, it

would be no hardship; but for now

and for all the right reasons

I simply smile and nod my head. 

One day, they might understand and 

lay those same flowers at my graveside;

hopefully, in mild disarray, to let me know

that some things do indeed remain the same. 

Reviews

[Chris]

Some words in life are best unspoken - and yet within a poem they ARE heard.