The Gardener Poem by Seamus O' Brian

The gardener's hands,
Gnarled roots of mahogany
draw down the branch
from its arching perch loftily
against the blue of April's sky,
Gently pulls it close
to his wizened, piercing eyes.

Perhaps in the silence
Of a moment timeless
A flight of ibis
flutter white
Against the green of the mangrove,

But the face of the gardener
Perhaps for the age of a sun
Perhaps for the moment
Of a fluttered wing
Remains unmoved
Like a lichen-graven boulder
Clutched by the roots
of a crag-born alder.

Gnarled finger roots
Tremble, seem to stroke
the skin of this pertinacious
limb.

The eyes of the gardener
Flecked with the memory
Of a daughter's wedding dance
fog as away they glance
at an ibis trailing white,
and gnarled fingers gather
‘round the polished oaken handle
of a razored pruning shear.