The long hot days lead me to go
and view the garden long unkept,
the uncut grass, the bushes grow
unpruned, unshaped, where weeds have crept.
I sit beside the shimmering pond
beneath the shading cherry tree,
recalling memories so fond,
your picture resting on my knee.
This garden was your love and life,
the passion of your final years.
But now, my dear departed wife,
should be the vale of all my tears.
Still, Spring is here, the flowers grow,
the fresh dug bed is doing fair.
The shrubs I planted should forgo
the cats inclined to dig right there.
You loved the garden more than I,
it filled your every wakening hour.
In fairness I could not deny
your permanent and final bower.
Terry Wassall
26th April 2020
