Some things you just can’t put a price on….

It’s not just the plants that give me such pleasure,
Deep in my garden lies its real hidden treasure.

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I use my garden to grow my soul,
To anchor my roots, to make me whole;
To understand how good it can feel
To weed out life’s trivia, to nurture what’s real;
To connect with nature, finding peace in its earth,
So how can I value what my garden is worth?

Day’s End

There is something quite magical about sitting and just watching the sun go down….

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The sun starts to set,
The air slowly cools,
The fierce daytime heat
Now no longer rules.
On the stoep we have gathered
For our usual observance
Of the end of the day,
The sun’s disappearance.

The dog has been walked,
The wine has been poured,
The stoep lamps are burning,
Against insects secured;
The last of the daylight
Lingers far out to the West,
It’s awesome changing vistas,
Stirring senses from rest.

And as night supplants day
The twilight is crowned
By animals orchestrating
That African sound.
Guinea fowl roosting,
Chattering away,
Crickets endless chirping,
Owls having their say.

Haunting sounds
As the day’s put to rest,
Another Karoo wonder
By which we are blessed.
And as the stoep lamps flicker
And we watch the flames dance,
The moths come to join us
On their nightly advance.

Finally by the darkness
We’re completely surrounded,
Our mind, soul and body
Now totally grounded.
Of all of life’s crops
Surely this is the cream,
Sitting here on the stoep,
Living our dream.


Garden Refugee

There is nowhere I’d rather be………………

When a person seeks a refuge
We call them a refugee,
So when I’m in my garden
Throw that mantle over me.
It is my church, my special place,
A sanctuary where I find peace;
The world outside is kept at bay,
And my soul can find release.

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With hoe in hand or watering can,
Under cloud or the blistering sun,
Life’s petty worries are cast aside
And with nature I become as one.
My garden’s where I truly find peace
As my plants I lovingly tend;
A safe haven that beckons me each day,
A refuge that’s become a true friend.

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The feel of the earth as I work with my hands
Makes the spirits inside of me rise;
I can think of no place I’d rather be,
No better sight for my sore, old eyes.
How can I value these gifts I receive
As my garden keeps on giving and giving?
I’ve found my asylum, I’ve made my escape;
A garden refugee; what a life to be living!


Our Cottage Might Be Small

Sometimes less can be more…


Under the jacaranda trees
In the soft dappled shade,
On a newly cut lawn,
With a lunch freshly made;
Sipping a cold drink,
Eyes gently closing,
The peace and the quiet,
Awesome and imposing.
Neon purple flowers
Occasionally falling
As the afternoon breeze
Now comes a-calling.
Butterflies float by,
Their painted wings flapping,
The dog missing their dance
As she lies quietly napping.
A drongo sits drinking
At the water fountain;
Watched over and guarded
By our beautiful mountain.
Our cottage might be small,
But it’s big on the giving,
It’s all we’ll ever need
For the life we’re now living.

Storm on the Ridge

Living on a ridge, looking out to sea, you can see the weather approaching…….

TPOTG-storm-across-the-bay-frame-01Low pressure is building,
forecasters are right,
And a storm is coming our way.
Dark clouds and the wind,
conspiring together,
To spoil the peace of the bay.

Windows are closed
and doors are shut tight,
A sensible precaution to take.
We’ve seen it before,
what a big storm can do,
The damage that’s left in its wake.

A wild wind now howling
across the ridge,
Nothing can escape from its path;
Trees bow in homage
to the lord of the storm,
But they can’t appease his wrath.

Rain clatters down
in great heavy bursts,
Soaking the hard, parched ground;
And birds and animals
look for some shelter,
Wherever it can be found.

Lightning forks
streak across the sky,
It’s nature’s most fearsome display;
And the thunder god Thor
sounds so very close,
Although we know that he’s so far away.

The sea is now angry,
white horses appear,
The waves are crashing the shore;
Adding to the noise
of the thunder and wind,
In nature’s cacophonous roar.

Windows and doors
rattling in their frames,
Roof timbers beginning to creak.
Exposed to the wind,
which whirls round the house,
Searching for a spot that is weak.

The roar of the wind,
the drum of the rain,
There’s no chance to get any sleep.
With a storm outside,
wanting to come in,
It’s such a long vigil to keep.

Then all of a sudden
the wind seems to go,
In a rush to be quiet again.
Daylight breaks,
and the sun pushes through
To drive away all of the rain.

The sea returns
to its gentle swell,
Its waves now caressing the shore.
The birds reappear,
singing their songs,
Peace is back on the ridge once more.