A Small Patch
A poem by Michael Hawkes
A rose garden is not what I wanted,
a small patch of grass would have done.
I felt their aroma was much over-rated,
their barbarous thorns as things to be hated;
I just wanted to sit in the sun
among wildflowers and weeds
with no urgent needs,
no pressure of things to be done;
no sniffing, no pruning and no flower arranging,
no attempts to impress anyone;
I wanted to be just plain, unassuming,
on a small patch of green in the sun.
Alas, I’m bequeathed a fine bed of roses
where flower fanciers frequently come
to delve in the briar with diligent noses
so mowing and raking the lawn I suppose
is the reason I’m feeling so glum.
(Born to privilege, wide with wonder)
19/5/17 Hawkes
Feature image: katrien berckmoes via StockPholio.com
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[/col][col size=”10″]Michael Hawkes is an 80-year-old survivor of all the world’s wars. He learned (and loved to rhyme) by torturing the hymns he had to sing at school. A retired West Coast fisherman living in Montreal since 2013, he is an unschooled Grandpa Moses writing an average of five poems every week.
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