The Gardener Poem by Sheena Blackhall

His own small garden made the world seem right
He even learned to love the Autumn rain.
The winter’s snow, the fading winter light.

He grew the cleanest carrots in the lane.
He’d dig all day, then slump down on his seat
But had you asked him, he could not explain

Why he so loved the clods beneath his feet
When other men preferred to pass on by
And wyle the hours away where neighbours meet

In pub or club to drink contentment dry.
After an evening’s toil, this gardener, slight
Of build, would gaze up at the reddening sky
And clean his spade and lock his tool shed tight
His own small garden made the world seem right.