The Gardeners.

Rolling lawns and herbaceous borders, arbours and arches.
Arches and screens for climbing means, clematis and runner
beans.
Jasmine scents the stoned pathways.

Sandstoned with style, small walls jut separating lawn from lawn.
Borders sprawl tall growing annuals.
Golden Rods and yellow Broom.
Roses red in full bloom.
Wisteria borders doors and windows blue and flowing.
Laburnum trees with yellow streams of reams.
Petals sleep on the lawns, everythings growing.

But now the lands untended, weeds strangle with nettle and
bramble.
Without care the Garden dies and nature cries.
Lawns all dead, weeds two feet high, no floral slendour greets the
eye.
Just weeds and dead wood, ants nests adorn the once precious lawns.

The airs bad now, the Garden tried.
The Gardeners dead now so the garden died.

Time waits for no man though, and with time shoots grow.
Roots  reborn dig and slither through fresh earth.
Cells multiply, and photosynthesis brings with this new growth.

A new Gardener guides his flowering brides and sees the seeds hes
sown grown and reach for the skies.
Lord of the land, the Gardeners hand.