Staid, sitting on his solid garden bench,
a slight figure wears a silk daffodil,
and waits for the artificial blooms to grow.
They seem to be taking their time this year.
A water feature simmers in the chill,
where more wood bark has successfully stifled
intrusions from reaching the chipped shoulders
of frozen, stone statues paused in motion.
He fails to notice that the cold, modern ornaments,
curated with minimum maintenance,
have left all their calculated edges
- with all those awkward angles - too much to do.
Despite an educated plan, convincingly sketched,
the trellis still has bullying bindweed lingering,
and betrays unwanted undergrowth not required
of a structure erected for clean, straight lines.
Wryly, with a certain haughty disdain,
the iron bench stoically withers in unison,
rusting and peeling in composed calm,
in spite of its applied meticulous varnish.
In the airless wind, the slight figure doesn't notice
the stir of fresh growth outside his perimeter,
as shoots of spry tendrils bud skyward
in a portent of impending summer.
The neat lawn has long since suspended growth
between winter's border rigidly plotted and deep cut.
April has failed to arrive: its pale features dimmed,
no longer lit with spring's inchoate burst.
A small child he vaguely sees looks solemn.
Rueful, the sitting form rails to himself
and measures the lost features of his bygone time:
the misplaced plans with their bold perspectives.
He's not stayed: the lost child by the column.