There lives a man

The man next door

is alone;

wife died

long ago,

so it is said,

now quite forgotten,

voice unheard,

except in old Super 8

he shows me

when he wants

a memory fix.


Yes, he is alone,

but not solemn,

because he

hums a tune

from the days of yore,

and curses

with laughter

in his garden

and talks to

his roses precious,

each with a name.


Betzy and Myrtle

are his favourite

feminine forms of blossom,

and it is quite

a love affair,

and he tells me that

Myrtle is jealous

of Betzy’s

long slim stem.


No, never alone,

with his cat sleeking

by his side

and his eyes fixed

on his Garden of Eden.


There lives

a man content

with his life,

with his lot,

with his memories intact

and his garden resplendent

from his work and

from his delight.