The Gardner's Bench Behind The Church Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

Try as he might, he'd never matched
the stride, his father seemed to be
a driven man. He'd always rush
not taking time to browse, to watch
the scenery; his eyes were focused at
Point B, and after that, Point C.
The General, as they had baptised him,
had passed one day, without much fuss.
He'd sat to rest upon a bench behind the church,
a pair of gardner's gloves, unnoticed, served
as final cushion as he took a mighty breath
and, unexpectedly he came, the Reaper.
And brought death.

A touch of honeysuckle hung about,
Spring was the finest season of the year,
a smile came quickly, lighting up the gray,
things changed each year and always stayed the same.
The river, cleaner now the soda plant was closed,
he'd been the first to cross, in fifty-four,
the ice was thin and had destroyed the bridge.
Those were the days of youth and foolishness.

And there she stood, eight hundred years and some,
they'd given her a brand new bell in sixty-one,
the year that Wilhelm died, they said he'd pull
the heavy rope with just one hand, the other would
flip pages in The Book, or search inside his coat
for loose tobacco that he grew on a small patch
behind God's little acre, where they were,
the prominent and those who came
when church bells tolled; it was a privilege,
needless to say, and all the graves were square,
with marble stones and little pots of plants,
the lettering gold, and walls of stone protected
from the Northerlies, which can't be said about
the public place, outside the town, and full of weeds.

He sat to rest his weary bones, it would be good
to snooze and reminisce a while, he'd take the time.
He felt the gardner's gloves just then and wondered if....
that's when his God called out, they found him later on,
a purple face of happiness, all smiles but very stiff.