When I take me to the garden wherein I love to toil
I think on those who went before me; only the fertile soil
Bears witness to their labours, who left before I came.
With so few signs to see, and knowing not their name
It's only plants and memories, that modestly proclaim
Their laborious deeds, or extol their claim to fame.

But evidence that's hard to see, can sometimes be found
If one studies the texture of richly augmented ground.
That spade and fork were handled, by a master's hand
Is plainly evident if one studies the fabric of fertile land.
Through studying trees and shrubs it's plain to understand
Why workers of early years, showed passion for the land.

Their love for all things growing, can still be clearly seen,
For every plant was placed to compliment Nature's scene.
Whilst ancient trees offer shade, upon a hot summer's day,
To cool the weary gardener, of whom many came this way,
It's when we who labour presently, accept an invitation to stay,
That we sense the presence of another, long since passed away!

Rhymer