THE WILDERNESS
This is the wilderness my uncle said:
A corner of the garden he'd let go,
Grass waist high and trees grown spindly
Because they were too close together,
A contrast to the rose beds,well mown lawn
And ranks of vegetables.There we would play
Where Indians, outlaws and rugged pioneers
Haunted that patch of wonder surviving
In a suburb.It's all gone now:childhood, uncle,
The patch sold to more determined gardeners.
To remember is to miss the place
Where imagination grew, lost now
In the cautious cultivation of our days.
"All gardens should have one," Uncle said,
We should have listened to him.
by John Cotton
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