THE PERFECT GARDEN

Look into a garden,
All neat and laid in rows.
The weed says "Beg your pardon,"
When speaking to a rose.

Man's perfection blooming,
Pruned and gently fed,
The rose needs constant grooming,
To addorn his flower bed.

One snip here and one snip there,
There are certain rules to keep.
The height, the colour and the size,
Or follows troubled sleep.

The weeds arrive so naturally,
Enjoy the rain and sun.
The gardner hoes and pulls them out.
Removes them every one.

The bed is how he wants it,
The perecious roses torn,
How can this man who tends them,
Their fellow plant life scorn?

Strewn upon the dung heap,
Before the autumn fire,
A little bird comes down to rest,
And sits upon a tyre.

Side by side a rosehip,
And a tattered little weed,
Lie in wait so patently.
They had no time to plead.

The man approaches with a match,
With which to light to fire.
The bird with eager eyes does watch,
Then with seeds flies high and higher.

The precious seeds tightly held,
Between its tiny beak,
The bird flies over seas and fields,
To a distant mountain peak.

Golden rays of Autumn sun,
Tiny drops of rain,
The little bird lands softly,
And plants the seeds again

There in nature's garden,
They grow up side by side,
No more "Beg your pardon,"
As friends they do abide.

Many years pass by them,
They're happy as they grow.
The bird revisits often,
More tiny seeds to sow.

The gardener, now an aged man,
His children grown and gone,
Reads all about a garden,
He'd like to look upon.

His strength did not forsake him,
As slowly he moved on,
To find this truly, wondrous thing,
That others gazed upon.

Sun filtered down through luscious green,
The tree stood proud and tall.
Beneath his feet strange fowers grew,
Amazed he gazed at all.

There he sood this aged man,
Caressed by sweet perfume.
All colours of the rainbow,
His heart it beat in tune.

The singing birds and whispering leaves,
The golden rays of sun.
Flowers, oh so beautiful,
At last he felt at one.

They found him in the morning,
A weed held in his hand.
A peaceful smile upon his face,
He'd found the perfect land.

Do not belittle the weed, but regard its strength as it penetrates the concrete slab.
It remains long after the hybrids have ceased to exist.
Birdy Heywood 2001