The
Gardener
Christine
Ann Clatworthy
Back
door ajar
carpet
slippers
striped
pyjamas
he
stands
meditates
hands
on hips
sniffs
the air
detects
the nip
a
hint of springtime frost
the
imminence of sunrise
finger
to the wind
breathes
in the heady scent
of
jasmine
sweet
mock-orange
Philadelphus
night-perfumed
phlox
cups
hand to ear
listens
hears
a blackbird’s danger call
suspects
next door’s cat
prowling
in the flowerbeds
frowns
brow
furrowed
like
a crinkled cabbage leaf
as
it shadows umber eyes
savours
in his mind
greeting
morning
bottom
of the garden
in
dappled dawn’s first light
watch
him
walking
up the path
white-tipped
cane in hand—
blind
since birth
wonder
as
he waves
how
he knows …
as
I wave back
from
my window.
***
Christine
Ann Clatworthy lives and works from a small bungalow in the
heart of the English countryside. Her life-long love of poetry
is driven by her passion for her environment, her family, a black
and white cat called Chess and the whole of this crazy, wondrous
thing we call ‘life.’
©
Chris Clatworthy