THE NURTURE OF CULTURE

"Have you a working pulse...?"
The vicar asks of his prize petunias.

They perk up at once
to the PERICLES.

"...she sent him away cold as a snowball..."
he whispers to his gladioli.

Once again the PERICLES
does the trick.

They positively beam at him
eager for more Shakespeare.

"Oh yes...oh yes...flowers...!"
the vicar eagerly pontificates

"...adore Shakespeare
especially PERICLES and other minor plays

rather than the great Dane
or say OTHELLO!"

I hardly believing the flowers’ Bardolatry.
The vicar’s garden a paradise.

“The herbs prefer Gilbert and Sullivan.”
he informs me as if it were ordinary.

"Really...?"
I gasp disbelievingly

“Ah ha...be my guest!"
he offers in good faith.

I tentatively  approach
a sprig of oregano.

It looks startled
being sung to!

"Poor wandering one
though you are sad and lonely...."

"No no my son...herbs
like to be spoken to...not sung!"

“And his time perhaps…the correct words?”
he offers admonishingly.

He preaches as if from a pulpit.
A congregation of  herbs and flowers

hanging on his every word
eager believers.

“Ahem...!” I
tentatively begin

"Poor wandering one
Though thou hast surely strayed..."

The oregano dances in the breeze.
He so very very pleased.

"Or sometimes my son
a little dash of Noël  Coward!"

"What compulsion compels them..."
I sing to the chives.

"And who the hell tells them!"
before being interrupted as before.

"No no… my son spoken not sung!"

"Why do the wrong people travel, travel travel
When the right people stay back home?"

"Excellent...excellent  one of their favourites
dear boy"

What could I possibly say?
His voice provoked such a fecundity

that could not be for a second doubted
although doubt I did.

"Oh yes...oh yes when one talks
to one's garden

one must bear in mind that flowers and herbs
prefer( how should one say )a little culture!"