There's no knowing why you need so much-
I'm the only one else here with you. Your
Day labourer. Show me the rectory,
Your garden. That is, your marijuana.
Garden guests: we don't know each other,
But agree it's wonderful to meet.
Apologies: I realise my mistake,
Though you'll admit its likeness is striking
To the other nameless plants. Stalks. Green. Garden.
You know the story. Your weed—pulled— Lazarus-like
Woken, sloppy, root-shaken. So small the time,
So well-acquainted with the underworld.
Quick attention on your part, if I might add.
Spry, you grabbed him, scalp in hand, cried: "Foolish boy!"
I'd let him fall. And you buried him all
Neck up in topsoil, consecrated
With pail-warmed water. Grandma's memory
Comes to mind. She told me the reason once
Why she drowned squirrels in her pool. "Poor souls
"Make stubborn sinners." Baptized, and sent to heaven.
But you don't believe in the resurrection.
Though dead druids mulch your kitchen garden.
And blessed by the priests under your broad beans,
You lead a congregation of tomatoes.
We're not as alone here as we thought,
Even so far west as Connemara,
Now that I too have heard your voices speak
A secret from beneath your trellises.
Whispered in plant language- thousands of roots.
Our own tongue almost, but louder only.
Too much layered-down, pooled-up past. Foolish.
No wonder. "Foolish boy." I can concede,
Foolish maybe, but I took your advice,
Saluted the voiceless ground and addressed
A prayer to the druids, Let him live again,
And knelt three times to wait for him to rise.