Not a Poem about What's in My Garden

 

I could write a poem about what’s in my garden,

but, while it’s a perfectly nice garden –

   think small, walled courtyard,

   with climbing Malvern roses on one wall,

   the heads of the poet’s wife roses

   popping out to say hello

   from behind the recently cleaned

   old, wooden bench,

   itself a couple of feet away

   from the washing line whirligig

   and sun-lounger,

   both canopied by a navy-blue sail,

   diagonally opposite the round glass table

   and its matching plastic rattan chairs,

   behind which is the green gate

   for entrance and exit –

well, it’s really not worth describing

in a poem,

is it?