"Have you a working pulse?"
he asks of his petunias.

"...he went away cold as a snowball!"
he tells his gladioli.

They positively beamed at him.

"Oh yes...oh yes. . ."
he pontificates

"Flowers like Shakespeare
best!"

"...especially PERICLES
& other minor plays

rather than the great Dane
or say OTHELLO!"

"The herbs prefer
Gilbert & Sullivan!"

"But, spoken:
not sung!"

"...poor wandering one..."

"Or sometimes a little
dash of Noël Coward!"

"...what compulsion compels them and
who the hell tells them..!"

What could I say?

His voice produced
such a fecundity

such a fertility

that his word
could not be doubted.

"Oh yes...oh yes
plants like to be

spoken to, but:
prefer a little culture.