Listen with Mother
The garden was her refuge
when she was on her own
not dwelling on the past
or of the love she'd known.
New Year she'd sort out seeds
for sowing in the spring
and tell me of her plans
I didn't hear a thing
In June the garden blazed
she'd go round gathering snails
I'd lie back in the shade
or answer some emails
Come autumn tidy round
how tall the plants have grown
she'd tell me how the roses were
but I'd be on the phone
Even in the winter
she'd potter to and fro
I wish now I had asked her
how does your garden grow?
A touch of guilt in there? Sadly true for many of us, I think
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