September comes again:

Warmly at first, as my son David and I celebrate the forty years

Since he came into my life.

Then later the month cools,

Although round us trees still shoot, shrubs flower;

Even the first blowflies persist into their hungry nuisance.

This month’s four Mondays bring again renewal,

In each commuter cycle – fresh weeks for those who love their work,

But more despair returned for those who hate it.

And between these extremes a wide spectrum,

Of passive feelings, many awaiting envelopes in mail-boxes,

Or seeking hope from Lotto systems, for their lives’ relief.

The weather, dry and windy, or my lack of skill,

Condemn survival for new plants I buy in hope

this time, this spring may be a start

For my imagined garden, but knowing in my heart

That three of every four will die while I’m distracted,

Slipping by like cousins from my generation.

And still some shrubs persist in dogged bloom

Despite the pressures of the wind, and my neglect; each year

Renewing, even when my gardening days are over.



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