The Grass
The grass was young, the grass was sweet
And as he ran it tickled his feet
The grass was strong, the grass was high
Brushing his black boots as he marched on by
The grass was burnt the grass was brown
Covering him as he was laid down
Amidst the noise of mortar and shell
He had left his own private hell
His soul soared free, his soul could fly
The grass kept on growing, the seasons passed by
One young soldier in the trenches slain
And the grass grew above him again
The Gardener
The garden is a peaceful place, and he
Works there, back bent, does not race
The seeds he plants, they do not rush
But grow contented in the hush
Each flower and tree it has a place
To grow within the garden space
Each bud knows what it has to do
Opening slow petals in various hue
No rules need be written, no factions divide
His work goes on smoothly, flowing as tide
The gardener stands and looks around
Of his sweet garden, he is so proud
Take a close look at his face
The gentle eyes, the smile, the grace
His hands are rough and strongly made
He stops his digging, leans on his spade
This gardener seems familiar somehow
I rack my brain, but I can’t think how
He looks like one I know so well
Have we met before? It’s so hard to tell
He calls me by name and I walk on over
Walking across his grass and his clover
I look in his eyes and then suddenly I know
He reaches my hand and I let myself go
I feel such a great love surrounding me so
The same feeling I had such a long time ago
I’ll just close my eyes now and pass through this screen
All I want is to stay in this garden of green
‘ Come quick!’ shouts the boy, his face flushed and red
‘ Come quickly Dad, Uncle Albert is dead
In Loving Memory of Dad (1934-2011)
