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.
18/6/2016