Even Planted Gardens

Even planted gardens
are rank round the edges:
thick with scraggy weeds
and small blue bells.

Even the most tended place
runs riot in its heart - 
the invisible flame rising
to light the dark green stalks 
	from within.

I sweat as I hoe -
tending the patch -
as quick as I clear, they 
	grow,
pulled up by the roots
always a remnant remains.

Even the most beautiful
garden, manicured like Eden
loses heart and becomes
dishevelled, untidy,
	sprawling,

its trees reaching wild and 
free in the air, the
rockeries choked with
heathers and alpines -

and the weeds thrive -
when the owner goes
and the step threads elsewhere.

They need cossetting, like
children, with their
best coats on, to
brave the winter and
last, alone, till the summer's
	sun.

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