The Garden

Dug deep into my thoughts,

I find a hard-wrought poem

Caught between a rose-bush and a fence.

 

I scramble at the surface, scratching

Past the clumps of earth, catching

Nailfuls of half-remembered things, and

Striking one: a glintless grain, like

Copper.

 

I cannot mould it. Never did

I wonder that my poem

Might not be underground,

But twisted skyward from some cracked seed-casing—away,

Away like art, and whole and fully grown,

So I can taste the tune

By which to slowly play it

Back to virtue,

And to untouched home.