all flesh is as grass

the corduroy grey
resting in a chair
beside the pond sighed
 
pointing to a clump
wilting in baked earth
 
‘those are crying out for water
the tap’s by the door…
the watering can…
would you mind?’
 
‘will I top up the bird feed?’
 
‘you’re very kind’
 
he waved toward the overgrowth,
 
‘I thought I could tame nature
now I sit watching it thriving’
 
the vieux found his feet
took the can
straightened the nozzle
and blessing the ground
recited,
 
‘He sends rain on the evil and the good’
 
‘I could come round some days,
do the odd spot of weeding’
 
‘but there are no weeds here’
 
 ‘will you write again?’
 
‘when I’ve something to say
that has not been said’
 
he knelt over a clump
of rosemary
showed a sprig
 
‘this has been around
dying, coming again
since creation’
 
‘do we die and then return?’
 
a long sigh
he pottered back
to the pondside chair
straightened his panama
 
rested his eyes
and set about snoring
 

© coolhermit 2020
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