On some nights
when pressure is low
we fear to revive
dying plants
lest supply runs out.
No new handouts.
We no longer know
what to do for the best.
All that still grows
are those that
strangle and exploit,
or send out thorns.
What will remain
of this garden
is brambles
and bindweed.
Even in this heat
we dread the cold to come.
It's true, Greg. When the brambles give up, we will have real problems. A fine, dry piece.
There’s a parched essence to this piece Greg, accurately depicting the title. Perhaps a new genre of Arid Poetry?
Drove up to Brittany yesterday in torrential rain. The bubble has burst here but gladly warm and dry today.
We gardeners are never happy are we? My daughter sent us a photo of our raised beds asking if the salad leaves were weeds!!! duh!
Love the middle verse 🌵🌿🍃
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Greg Freeman
Mon 15th Aug 2022 23:24
Thanks for your comments, Graham and Steve. Well, these are certainly arid times, for sure. The rain hasn't reached us yet. Thanks for the Likes, Frederick, Julie, Stephen, Holden, and John.