To the one side is the builder
To the other the gardener mows the grass
From the concrete mixer to the trowel
To the beads of sweat upon the brow
He talks of white painted walls and fences
She buys more plants for the planting tubs
The garden pond is still leaking
A penetration to the sunken membrane
The studio could have a window
If only he had the necessary skills
The far garden could have a building
But how many places are needed to sit or write
All in all we are all on a search for shelter
Both for the creation and for the living
So a garden becomes a place for dreaming
For leaning on our own adventures
One by one the list is encouraged
Day by day another idea or ideas
Never then to truly settle
Not ever to become set solidly still
Instead a canvas for fabrication
An easel to describe the wheelbarrows
Of toil, trouble and dissatisfaction
Before the lights are allowed to shine
Not ever then to say never
Or to think the fence would be good in grey
Always to find a shelter for the sitting
As one wanders through night and day
