A Proper Sort of Gardener

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 butterflies from that assembly 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