Interview with a Gardener
Posted: Sun Aug 17, 2014 8:45 pm
Interview with a Gardener*
“Do you see that,” he said, his face turned
scoured and angry as we stood by a rusted
gate propped up by a blue plastic barrel,
lichened and cow-shit-splattered. “You’d
have to pity a man who would let it all
go to hell and he within having his breakfast.”
The garden of dock weeds, wind-blown
buttercups and swaying foxgloves beside
a bungalow not painted in decades, and a parked
Land Rover, headlight smashed and rusting wheels.
But was it pity he felt, or the contempt of a man
assured of his gifted green fingers and the
rootedness of a gardener to the world of clay
and the abundancy of the seasons held within?
And what of the man sitting at his kitchen table,
in his neglected house, by an imagined tick-
echoing clock? Maybe there is no assurance
in a universe where the seasons have abandoned
a garden left unploughed and untilled.
“Do you see that,” he said, his face turned
scoured and angry as we stood by a rusted
gate propped up by a blue plastic barrel,
lichened and cow-shit-splattered. “You’d
have to pity a man who would let it all
go to hell and he within having his breakfast.”
The garden of dock weeds, wind-blown
buttercups and swaying foxgloves beside
a bungalow not painted in decades, and a parked
Land Rover, headlight smashed and rusting wheels.
But was it pity he felt, or the contempt of a man
assured of his gifted green fingers and the
rootedness of a gardener to the world of clay
and the abundancy of the seasons held within?
And what of the man sitting at his kitchen table,
in his neglected house, by an imagined tick-
echoing clock? Maybe there is no assurance
in a universe where the seasons have abandoned
a garden left unploughed and untilled.