The Gardener

His own small garden made the world seem right He even learned to love the Autumn rain. The winter’s snow, the fading winter light. He grew the cleanest carrots in the lane. He’d dig all day, then slump down on his seat But had you asked him, he could not explain Why he so loved the clods beneath his feet When other men preferred to pass on by And wyle the hours away where neighbours meet In pub or club to drink contentment dry. After an evening’s toil, this gardener, slight Of build, would gaze up at the reddening sky And clean his spade and lock his tool shed tight His own small garden made the world seem right.