In the Garden.

Bird song
flitters from a hidden copse;
a shrill sounding from a rapier beak
sharpened in battle.

The gardener
sculpts and nurtures ruthlessly
destroying anything that does not conform
to the mind's-eye image of perfection.

Winds rush
to rearrange, whispering and testing,
touching with the familiarity of a lover,
stealing my breath away.

Beating wings,
paired for balance, paint a constantly
changing picture, and the creaking earth
absorbs the summer sun, unappeasable
in its rush to get the growing done.

Each touch
of the rooted ones, is as different
as the voices in a choir.

Every last one picked,
by either gardener, or time,
here in the killing fields.

© niall oconnor 2015