The Secret Garden’s Secret

The secret garden’s secret is it’s dying.
More actively: we mortals take its life.
Not all of us. Some gardeners work hard trying
to block, with shovel, hoe, and pruning knife,
the money floods we other folk let loose
to flow like black gold over garden walls.
We show great interest in attempts to sluice
the topsoil’s gold we cart in carryalls
to fertilise our fantasy we’re gods
and need no roots, or none that we can’t make.
We modern humans, jumped-up amphipods,
pretend we don’t need wildlife, and we stake
all species’ fate in underfunded schools
that clap for gardeners but can’t buy them tools.

The Russet Shell-less Snails

How many colours populate this place?
Four russet shell-less snails assist my count.
White flowers proffer broad flat leaves
that boast greens enough for myriad gowns.
Most of the blooms host hordes of well-shelled snails,
each shell a riotous, tasteful blend of browns
between bands depicting darker shades of dawn.
The arborvitae’s hues are too complex
to count their variations on dark green.
The berry bushes burst with red and black.
The stonewall stonewalls colour, but its hues
of sand and shadow backdrop one red rose
whose perfect-flower edge descends to brown
as what was bud then bloom moves to decay.
The russet snails, like sea lions seen from planes,
seem all immobile less I really look.
One turns its head; antennae sample wind.