I am not finished yet
I declare as I wash down
the path in the garden
the old arthritic man in me
gently fiddles ineffectively
with weeds
trims errant bushes
clears mounds of leaves things
that need attending to
are added to the
purposeful small garden of tasks
seemingly so I cannot say
this job is done
yet
and through these
insufficient deeds
the hours into days well
they pass peacefully enough
with only this gaggle of
humble activities of note
though there are days
where I can't be arsed with
even this,
that or the other
luxuriating in my age
and indolence
because I can
and will given the time
lounge around sheepishly
deaf to plaintive echoes of my Mother
incanting disparaging phrases
of any notion that I
could sit around all day
doing nothing
when nothing can be
so delightful a frisson of freedom
from care about any
inculcated remonstrance
too old yes too bloody old
for any of that
I puff up some cushions to
let body mind and purpose
find some shut eye
existing can that really
be redacted to an exercise
in the time
and productivity
of a neat garden in winter
or did I miss some salient point
or sagacity along the way in
the meaning of meaning
is it in the doing
or the endgame that
life is at its best isn't life normally a job
left incomplete abandoned to
the accompaniment of some tune
filched from Thomas Tallis
to activate all the tear ducts
of mourners in the perfectly
manicured garden
of remembrance
Written by Stephen Lumb
November 2025
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