The Centre of the Garden
By The Swagman
The Centre Of The Garden In the centre of a garden a seedling grew, A starting over - A life anew. The gardener tended him best of all Making sure he'd grow straight and tall. Clouds would rumble and gather overhead, To send down the rain on his garden bed. The sun with its daily golden glow Would warm his bed to help him grow. The seasons pass and he stretches his limbs, And weeps when the gardener's memory dims. He beckons to the birds in the sky To rest in his branches way up high. Then whilst in his prime something goes amiss, He's no longer warmed by the sun's gentle kiss, His leaves lose their colour and wither away, And the curtain comes down on his life's short play. Though his life maybe gone he stands straight and tall. Seen from all around and remembered by all. He stands firm against the wind and refuses to lurch And the birds from the sky still use him to perch. So his life had a purpose - Albeit too short, And his death has a purpose - Of a sort. In the centre of a garden stands a great tree, And although he's not living - He remains a memory. By The Swagman Written November 14th, 2001 © on Nov 13 2001 05:19 PM PST 0 • 10
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"The Centre Of The Garden..."