Poetry
by Phil Brown
IN A THOUSAND GARDENS
In a thousand gardens,
Beneath a thousand trees,
Hover those eternal hordes
Of butterflies and bees.
Time is obsolete there
And everything is green;
Widows with their verdant thumbs
Toil away unseen.
There, in lonely suburbs,
Sheltered from the street,
They are building fences -
Walls against defeat.
Silent, soft and simply,
On into the day,
Wrinkled hands are working
Hard against the clay.
Digging, turning, pulling,
Never giving in,
Tired old souls are sighing
"Weed! You never win".
Then, at tea-and biscuits
They are sitting still,
Watching phones that never ring,
Taking down 'that pill'.
Soon they'll plod and plunder
Through the afternoon,
Struggling on till nightfall,
Working into gloom.
In a thousand gardens,
Beneath a thousand trees,
Weep a thousand widows
But no-one ever sees.
by Phil Brown
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