Hush, my garden sleeps,
and I, creeping quietly,
tiptoe with sword and spear.
Loppers, pruners and the saw
that will perform the nips
and tucks that shape and size
her wild enthusiastic growth,
confine her to the boundaries
of youthful vigour soon to be
twirling round her gnarling
trunks, forgetful
of passing years,
at peace in a
present moment.
I cleave my way through
herbaceous hearts,
dividing, subtracting,
silent seeking
the holy grail
of eternal, renewal,
forever young.
I tiptoe unconvinced
by this show of sleeping.