My garden’s the one with the thistles
I keep it immaculately wild
The trowel and the spade have rusted away-
Now I sit and smile.
The neighbours have borders and beds
To match their orderly lives;
They grow rows of delicate flowers
But nothing really thrives.
I have the butterflies, I have the birds
My thistles are teeming with life.
Yet all that I do is watch as they grow
I don’t need to be neat or precise.
Because sometimes life must be messy
And growth doesn’t look very nice.
My garden’s the one with the thistles
And thistles, for me, will suffice.
