I met a man, a gardener,
Who told of an auspicious seed.
He worked the seed, carefully
Its flower never seen.
The villagers would glance at him,
In times when things were looking dim
His ambitious eyes and sallowed skin
Reminded them to not give in.
When his work-struck shoulder stiffened,
strained back outed,
He still worked his seed.
And it never sprouted.
Until one off-beat Thursday morn,
the man did not get out of bed.
He passed away that fateful night,
The patch was left an empty stead.
The village gathered for the mass
A crowd with eyes of glass,
They stood and spoke, with admiration,
Of his hard-laboured inspiration - unforgotten.
Outside the Church, in the man's humble patch,
A seed sprouted, flourished - hatched:
Eden would have paled to see
The tree that came from this mere seed,
Hard work and dedication-
A tribute to his legacy.
