The hole

The rosemary had a gap and a large hole
A blackbird made a nest there  where it sang
Startled people passing asked, who rang?
If I knew, I never would have told.

This gracious shrub was old and very wide
It made a home for snails against the wall
Near where  blackbirds busily might call
Yet wrongly pruned,eventually it died

One must not prune a bush into the wood
This plant is tender like the inside wrist
Where wanton lovers avidly do kiss
Thinking  they are  flagrant in their  good

Later we had placed a  beech  bonsai
Small and frail behind the red brick wall
Where the blackbird sang in Spring and Fall
Now the tree’s as tall as any lie

Small its leaves yet mighty is its heart
It pushes half the hedge off at a slant
Where the prickles fill with antic ants.
Hot the sun on leaves  that know no chart

Here the metal gate is open wide
The path is level but with spirit none
My heart is in the case with him who’s gone
I carry all my shopping bags inside

On the shelf, a little wooden tray
A butter dish perhaps or a cheese board
Too small for  any man who was a Lord
Here he left his  gold at end of day