That's The Wilfulness Of Every Garden Poem by Mark Heathcote

The gardener knows he must tend his garden,
at times plans ahead at times must be ruthless
Or else weeds play havoc in their fountains.
Otherwise, ivy shall climb, spitefully heinous…

Here stale air thickens heavy, where nothing grows
except for that broken urn the body of an acorn.
Where hopes chalice now empty, lowly stows.
Like Sleeping Beauty beneath the May hawthorn.

Yes, only the gardener really knows which course
Follows, which...it takes a brave hand to create
A garden and into it breathe life's force
Braver even still to make its heart palpate.

Envisage little bits of celestial Eden
With a babbling brook full of tiny gudgeon.
Some praise just a little short of heaven,
That's the wilfulness of every garden.