There is an air of neighbourliness here;
it is a mere pretence, a sham.
We nod, exchange pleasantries,
share small talk as I walk the dog;
watch (and mention) his hard labour
as he cuts a swathe through evergreen
and he seems a little distant now.
We live our solitary lives
preferring the comfort of our own potting sheds,
there is necessity of order here,
we choose what will live and bloom
or twist out and die.
We have our sanctuaries’ our
guard ourselves against the possibilities of harm.
We, victims of our own defences become a garden full of weeds.
We had talked some time ago;
he told me of his blight, proliferation of disease.
He had hope then, an optimism.
He would lend himself to those with greener fingers,
they would tend him and he would thrive again.
The seasons pass and he has a look of autumn,
a withering of summer.
He tells me the laurel will not outlive the winter
and crestfallen his sad smile flutters to his feet.
MLM at Mindlovemisery has us trying our hand at prophecy. Sadly the prophecy is that of a near neighbour and I fear he might be right in that he, the laurel will not outlive the winter… Not quite sure the above is what MLM had in mind but after talking to my neighbour a few days ago i felt compelled to write of our discussion and I honestly think I did so to cope with my own felt inadequacy.
(Also shared with the good folk at Poets United)
Image: courtesy of Wikimedia CommonsAuthor: User:Burrows