THE GARDENER

A BORN AGAIN
GARDENER

The fruits of the garden are no more
Madness stalks behind the eyes
This, the age, of the blind gardener
Has arrived
Hands smooth and clean
Beneath the blood blisters’ grins
With half a face suntanned
A right arm
A right leg
Dark and brown
Like the habitat of the worm
A thick and solid body
Rooted in the grip
Of a river gums hold upon a bank
A head of hair
Brittle and dry
A colourless wisp of labour

One type of weed
For years upon years
It was encouraged to breed
As means
As defense
Against another toxic infestation
But the roots were black with suicide
The toxic infestation soon passed away
And gardener celebrated
And forgot the weed
Until an over abundant peach tree
Fell down like a drunk without a thought
With a ring of weeds marking the death

And then the gardener
Perceived the deeds of the weeds
Through his cataract reality
All there was for the gardener
Was that one type weed
While the garden starved
Withered and wilted
In an abstract surrealism
On a garden canvass
Peeled and flaked
Blown away by a northerly

And now the garden dies
Where once flowers, shrubs and trees
Reigned supreme
Now
A thousand new toxic infestations
Began to creep across the turf
Towards sovereignty
Of the garden’s heart
While the gardener hunted
One
Only one
Type of weed