In an English Garden

In an English garden

Beneath the weeping willow.

An old man sits

Pondering the days gone by;

Days of sadness, days of glory,

Days one by one, each marching by.

Each hour tolls out its story

Of deeds done or left undone,

Small acts of cowardice or heroism,

Unremarkable plodding days;

Each with numbing constancy

Following one upon the other.

In an English garden where the robin sings

An old man sits pondering days gone by.

Each day bore its own potential,

Of things once done, or left undone,

Of things once embraced, or things ignored.

The fruit of faithful actions, or of despair.