Gardening Days
A. M. Bellows

Who tends the garden? No one did the sceptic say,
Left ragged, dishevelled, the Gardener gone away
If He was ever there, and that may not be
For there is no trace for us to use.

On Monday, the Winter frosts came thick and fast
A biting wind blew, the trees swaying like a mast
Caught in turbulent seas; an icy mist upon the land
And all was caught in the bleak Midwinter hand.

On Tuesdat, the roots stir, send forth shoots of green
The Spring begins, the birds once more are seen
And heard anew, a harmony of choral singing
That heralds the year afresh, and growing.

On Wednesday, the garden glows amidst the showers
The petals open, it is all abloom with flowers
The grass is cut, the weeding done
Amidst the glorious Summer sun.

On Thursday, all is hot and so very, very dry
The sun beats remorselessness from the sky
We seek what little shade we may
And lie there panting in the day.

On Friday, the leaves begin at last to fade
As Summer gives way to Autumn shade
A time for walks, while still we can
Another season’s brief lifespan.

On Saturday, my lady tidied up the garden before
The days draw further in, the night grow more,
And earth grows harder still, and ever cold
As with each day, this year grows old.

On Sunday, I cleared away the leaves from where they lay
Upon the ground, brown and golden, in decay
Fallen from trees so many shades and hues
As Winter comes to claim her dues.

Who tends the garden? The Gardener, some will say
Or is there no Gardener, a counsel of dismay?
We tend the garden, and our hands are His
Faith sees clearly, and knows this.