C. H. Sisson
Gardening
What night, corrupt, as this must be, with dreams
Gathers around this age and finds me now
Here in this garden, not in Eden, no
Another garden and another time
Old age.
But there is neither slope nor sun can make
Amends for what I missed under your hands.
Old fool. Reproaches I could buy for nothing
In any market-place. How can I turn
This ageing sorrow to a biting wind
To catch me like the tangles of your hair
Gone and imagined? How can I turn
This burrow in the crumbling earth to peace?
Like a worm under stone. Or like a beetle
Making away and does not understand
Its movements, passions, parts.
Page(s) 45-46
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