He is reflective

It is in the same garden much materials
are buried and burnt , transformed as
fertilisers ,it is here , where, big ground nuts,
have been wholesaled,

The septuagenarian drives into his garden
by his wheel chair, just returned
from hospital, rheumatism causing his
Counting days, his garden, his nurturing,

His upbringing now passes off to another
owner, from the next month, for the
landlord has sold the house,
the fresh, jasmine, aroma of the

flowers still hanging on to the stem ,
now uprooted by the merciless
Gardener, the wheel chair moving forward
but his eyes can not envisage,

rude crowbar commanded by the master,
the plant stuck to the soil , wet, not yet dead
smell s rusty , musty , its roots still
craving for ancestral anchorage,

another implantation if possible,
he wonders how the shift
has changed the plant’s
destiny, the man sees the cycle

of life, be it a plant or garden
in different perspective.