Gardening On An Autumn Afternoon. Poem by Don Dickenson

Autumn in a Garden,
What better time could be?
With golden tints, and winter hints.
An action packed agenda.
Prune wayward vines, with sharpened blade.
New soil turn, for frost to break,
Herbaceous borders, edge and trim,
a new arrangement to be made.

Woodshed timbers, summer dried;
Cry out for creosote,
And through a window, may be seen,
Dust covered, high piled, - bulbs.
No beauty in their present state;
Brown, scaly, ugly, dead.
Assigned to springtime resurrection,
wanting still, a burial date.

Relaxed, I seek a ‘feel good’ glow,
Which comes with garden labour.
As cosseted in leathered suite,
before a flaming hearth I rest,
Musing upon each autumn job.
Warmed by a fire, with wine to cheer,
A stronger glow pervades my limbs,
that conscience cannot rob.

Raindrops splash and splatter,
Thrown against cold windows,
By a boisterous western wind.
Breaking through my quiet, destroying reverie.
Reminder of a special prayer,
All armchair gardeners pray.

“ I THANK YOU FOR THE RAIN, O LORD,
AND - THAT IT CAME - TODAY.”

Now, where did I put that Gardening book?