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Spring 2003 Poetry Competition First Prize

Neat Garden

by Anita Traynor

Email: anita.traynor@bt.com

He is a man who plants his daffodils in rows.

He looks at mine, in little clumps, and knows

That this spring is the last

For our regimented chaos.

 

He tries so hard, a handful here, a handful there,

To mix it up and let it spread into a pattern more harmonious.

But when the summer comes the hollyhocks stand tall

And the forget-me-nots are forgotten.

 

He is a man who puts the pictures straight.

He looks at mine, askew, and cannot wait

To tell me of his plan,

So well construed, that there can be no argument.

 

Once more, just once, he says to me,

As he moves a vase just so,

We’ll play out in the garden

And see what we can grow.

 

He is a man who plants his daffodils in rows.

He looks at them, so ordered, and he throws

His caution to the wind, allowing weeds amongst the flowers for the day.

For who’s to see them, now that I have gone away?

©2003 Anita Traynor

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