My garden has a lawn -
Green and withdrawn,
Shaded by trees
Wherein the breeze
And - need I add? - the bees
Make soothing melodies . . .

And on a day
It may
Befall,
When I have pulled up all
The various kinds of weed
That seed,
Blithe and unbidden -
The groundsel, fat hen, chickweed, ragwort,
milk thistle, nettles (dead and otherwise)
and the rest -
And hurled them on the midden,
And dealt with every conceivable brand of
garden pest -
The ant, the leatherjacket, the palmer, the earwig
(which I am told is an excellent mother)
As well as the aphides which smother
The rose trees -
And, after coping with all these,
Tackled the wasps that generally get to the ripe pears first,
And shooed away the blackbird that regularly comes
And eats the plums
Till he is ready to burst . . .
When that day,
As I say,
Shall dawn,
I shall lay down the shovel and the hoe
(Like Poor Old Joe),
Not to mention the trowel and shears
And the secateurs,
And go
And fetch a garden-chair
On to the lawn
And there
I'll sit
On it . . .