I'm surrounded by people with splendid gardens.
Tiny bulbs, big bulbs (crocuses & daffodils) elegantly march
in unison brilliantly.    They stroll contentedly
through small glades, under big trees, close to artistic
lily & goldfish ponds.    Soon the crabs, peaches
& cherries will astonish them redly & richly.

I examine my own garden critically:    Occasionally
a tree or shrub engages in a stifling quarrel
with something or somebody.

(Lime-haters wither.
Newcomers are froststricken. Is it possible this poor
place of Mine will ever hold up it’s head again?)

But each year in midsummer an envious neighbour
leans suddenly over the fence. He stares at the flourish
of orange, crimson & blue. Exasperated he shouts loudly:
‘Who the devil has stirred up this ridiculous mishmash here?’


I suppose that in a way I'm jealous of their formally artistic, elegant gardens. Probably a garden to them is no more than a side-line to be occasionally exhibited & surprised by.

I watch my own garden continually & anxiously. How the devil can I help these wretched plants? It's astonishing that so many have survived.

My neighbours’ carelessness infuriates me endlessly!