From his work in the garden – those strips of wildness
tamed, the carpet lawn watered at the end of day –
the gardener goes to his rest.
Snails have been salted, roses stand corrected,
hawthorn hedges are cut to the back of the head
of a West Point cadet.
Harebells, foxgloves, the white trumpets
of convolvulus – all have been destroyed
in sweaty triumph.
Only a few forget-me-nots,
their eyes showing, are left, unremembered
under the hedge.
Into the last sunlight the ash raises
its rebel flame. Asleep in his armchair, the gardener
dreams of tree felling.
