The flower bed was olden
(to my mind)
redolent of a childhood garden
where asters and veronicas
do-si-doed in kaleidoscopic patchworks
(and lovely fragrant balm bursts)
of pansies and petunias and pungent marigolds;
splashed, periodically, in watermelon
and popsicle drip drops
that fell from up above – from me.
It was like no other yard that I had ever
(or would ever) see;
for everywhere flowers tumbled
in wild topsy-turvy profusion;
in sharp contrast
(or so it seemed to me then – and still)
to the two, somewhat buttoned down, gardeners
(as I recall my grandparents to have been).
They passed when I was little more than a child
(one soon after the other)
and yet, when I see an olden garden, now,
without rows or without colors separated, artfully -
and without a spot of dirt to be found
I think of them, for a bit –
though I don’t remember much more,
they played bridge,
they went for long drives in the car,
and they lost both their sons
in the Second World War.
note: Had a birthday this week, which (the more they pile up ) seems to stir up long ago memories.
Photos: Olden Garden - W. Bourke
© 2013 Wendy Bourke