A red-billed thrush hops gently round the lawn

In search of peace among the Golden Showers

And bougainvilleas' blaze of brilliant flowers

That drop in cascades, through three decades borne

On strangled arms of bloodwood's boughs, now torn,

Revealing sap that leaks its sanguine powers

And suffers death becoming nature's bowers

To beautify this arbour for the morn.

I too seek peace away from earthly care,

Away from jealous rivalry and hate,

And seek it in this garden with a bird

Who cannot sense the tragedy, nor share

The calm that comes as anguished thoughts abate

When the Easter Gardener's quiet voice is heard.

Sunday morning on Pyke's Farm, recovering after illness.

May 1976