Beautiful gardens are each special in some way many times reflecting the personality of the gardener.

Walled

A chance turn on a summer walk
brings me to a high stone wall
the flint faces glint in the sun
between moss covered cement.
Nothing here of great beauty,
just old, till I pass the gate
wrought iron black and arched
but this is not what amazes.
It is the vista beyond
the myriad flower and foliage.
The gate not locked I enter
and look up the path to the corner.
Up the hill a small house
also of flint and cement
but in between what wonder
the work of a garden master.
Each plant and tree so placed
to give a pleasing view
whichever way you are standing
somehow molded with the land.
Like the pleats on a well made dress
enhancing and contrasting
a feast for the eyes.
I walk the path agape.
The colors filling my soul
and a feeling of peace steals over
as though I am home at last.
I look to the house front door
Which opens and a man stands there
the weathered face and hands
announce who is the gardener
I don't know what to say
But his smile says all to be said
as he looks and sees my face
and knows what is about.
I wave and he waves back.
I turn and retread the path
reviewing the myriad sweep
till the wrought iron gate clangs shut
on a lovely country garden.