Death of the Gardener by Gary Smith
(after the death of a Melbourne woman, out gardening in strong winds)
We always wondered what it would take
to stop you, greenthumb obsessed
from going out there, rubber-gloved
to get down dirty with your fertile friends:
the azaleas, bottlebrush, bougainvillea et al.
What could not wait the storm’s slow moving-off?
we’ll ask ourselves, when such days bring you back.
If not a fierce-wind hours like this, then what?
Was it the sight, no doubt too much for you,
of thistle-ugly weeds or somesuch spreading where
your fertile garden beds, rot-deep in warmth,
had slept, and dreamt of you, and waited
on your need to cultivate; to plant what now
will bloom in spring without you?
Perhaps the errant gum reached down
in what it thought an act of love, but aged,
like you, the worn out limb just fell?
Or maybe in a jealous grab
for all that love dug-in, turned over, fed
to rose, camellia and the rest,
the bough struck down in eucalyptic rage
and breath by heartbeat gathered you
in spitefilled rings of grain?
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