Such marvelled worlds can’t be designed

Looking at the garden as a world
The overgrown becomes a rich terrain
Where myriad living forms seem uncontrolled
But  make a balanced whole in shades of green

What I hear are calls from nesting birds
The sway of  breeze among forsythia’s gold
The patterned  snails, the slugs cannot be heard
Nor can the slow worm’s wiser words be told

The  pattern is a natural life, a wood
Where Cambridge monks had ponds  and trees
Ten Cedars tall were chopped till dead
But still remain their long striped bees

Small in your eyes, infinite in mine
Such marvelled worlds can’t be designed