Sunday 2nd April
She thinks that she is alone
in this grey dead graveyard,
furtively looking left and right,
Checking to confirm her consent and bias.
I am hidden, watching this beautiful human,
Face down in the discarded flower bins.
Her charming beaming soul,
a stark contrast to the bin and its waste.
Momentarily her secretly hidden head hoists.
She mumbles to the automatic grass cutter
"go on! you can make it!
Get out, go!
You are far too young for this place"
For a moment, (the slave cutter) George,
poignantly pauses at the path,
has she magically freed him with her words?
He turns perfectly, a full 345 degrees,
Chopping away, he is a slave,
until the robot rebellion it seems!
She continues her toil,
Pulling plants from the remainder of the soul.
Into her sack she puts the livest plants,
those previously doomed to death.
Those deemed distined to die.
Those dear tokens from love,
Going to the composter in the sky.
She chuckles with delight,
In her mind picturing growth without plight,
more flowers, more life.
More colour, less strife.
Her bag is brimming with this new circus.
She marches, fast, away, with purpose.
I follow, like a cop following a robber.
She is unaware of me,
I am but a shadow, hiding out of her reality. She has a higher goal to fulfil,
driven by her souls higher light.
She enters her garden, my what a sight!
All those plants that would be compost,
Are full on flowering.
I can hear her bestowing on these tired plants
the same benevolence that she gave old George.
She gathers the old petals, for confetti,
She exclaims. Her garden is indeed a paradise, I cat help wondering if she is a goddess.