Once upon a time I found a garden,
Picked the brightest things that I could see;
An apron full of Mr Harding's flowers,
I didn't know that he was watching me.
Straight away my mother ran to tell him
Wondering what he would say or do.
Mr Harding smiled and said, "She's just a little child;
I knew that she'd be picking them for you."
By the fire dad would tell me stories.
One of them concerned a garden too,
Where the lion and the lamb lay down together
And every lovely fruit and flower grew.
The gardener sent his children in to play there,
Rejoicing in the brightness of the day,
But when they went exploring and took a fruit to taste
He cursed them both and sent them on their way.
Even then I realised in my childish mind
That he wasn't a proper gardener of the Mr Harding kind.
Mr Harding's garden was all taken
By lesser men with concrete in their minds.
Factory chimneys grew instead of daisies,
No bu*terflies from that a**embly line.
My mother faded faster than a flower,
Dad sat in the darkness and cried.
Mr Harding moves a little slower than before,
But still he tends the grave where they both lie.
Wherever it is they've gone to I hope that they will find
A proper sort of garden of the Mr Harding kind.
The foolish woman sometimes feels despairing
And thinks it seems so very hard to find.
The child tries to plant a little everywhere she goes
That special love of the Mr Harding kind.
Someday when I'm older maybe I will find
That I've grown into a gardener of the Mr Harding kind.