Even as he turned the soil, unearthed the weeds,
He knew that he would have to plant new seeds.
For what is it to grow a garden and not linger,
To stop and revere,the art of your green finger?
What pleasure there is in being freedom’s child
Sprouting buds and leaves, trendrils twirling wild.
There is also great merit in the design and pruning,
For complementing–colour, shape and fine–tuning
At the end of the day, we’ll sit back and admire
The achievements of hopes to which we aspire.
No longer prisoners of our own fault and device,
Co-creators, not victims of the throw of the dice.
No root stands firm without tender loving care,
Nutrients and water, sunshine and refreshing air.
Even when we think that chance is to blame
We must each move towards our own end-game.