The
Old Garden
No-one comes here any more, my garden
is all but gone,
Only just a memory, with a slimy pond
The weeds have now taken over, it really looks quite sad,
When I remember the good times, that we all had.
Where the beautiful flowers once bloomed, yellow, orange
and red,
It seems such a pity, to now see them all dead.
Even the paths, neglected and falling apart,
As I ponder through the old garden, it really breaks my
heart.
I remember the times of its glory, where people would
meet and talk,
Sitting on the garden seat, while others just wanted to
walk.
Many stories were told, of some I still remember like
yesterday,
I can’t help shedding a tear, when everyone walked
away.
Now the garden seat is broken, the paint is peeling off,
The gate that opened so freely, destroyed by termites,
its timbers paper soft.
The lawns are like a jungle, I wouldn’t know where
to begin,
So I must walk away, to see it is a sin.
So as I walk away from the old garden, I see the holes
set in the fence,
To see my garden die, it really had no defense.
Maybe in time, my garden just might survive,
If only someone really cares, to keep the memory alive.
© Copyright 2003 By Robert McCarthy
All Rights Reserved.
From the beginning of 2000 to sometime
in 2002 I frequented the IRC chatrooms and had registered
a room called My Garden where internet friends would come
to chat together. Rob was one of the people who came
there. He is a very prolific writer of poetry. At one
time I had burned all his poems to disk and re-sent them
to him when his PC crashed and he said he lost them all.
This poem, Rob wrote for me and my chatroom when I no
longer frequented IRC. I lost contact with most of the
chatters from My Garden, including Rob. I do hope he has
published some of his poetry.
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