The Hidden Garden Poem by Marilyn Shepperson

Though the tiny stream still runs
The same old route, under child-sized bridges
That will soon crumble into the water
The trees spread their branches, where they will
Yet those fallen in winter storms
Sport gothic looking fungi along their trunks
And fairy toadstools are among the roots
While where the sunlight has managed
To filter down through the leaves
Bluebells have spread a fragrant carpet
Bushes grown rank, hide the holes
That are the entrances to rabbit warrens
A path meanders between the beds
Of still orderly rows of exotic plants
But among them, wild flowers
Now have a field day
Along and up the back walls
Honeysuckle, bindweed and rambling roses
Fight with ivy and passion flowers for space
The paving stones of the path
That leads to the fountain and the house
Are slippery with clumps of moss
And littered with the shells of snails
Where thrushes have used them for anvils
The fountain is splotched with lichens and rust
But its' cracked bowl is a haven
For wild bees, butterflies and moths
And as for the house itself
Now only a roofless shell
Still offers a safe, comfortable home
To birds, spiders and mice.