The Garden

We cleared all the bush and mambas wriggled out,
the ground dipped, 'There's a stream,' a sudden shout,
Queensborough valley was a lush verdant African patch,
couldn't take criticism because beauty was there to match.

The baboons chattered, taunting and teasing souls,
we went from room to room in the house like moles,
deciding what was going where, time to stand and stare,
at any intruders because with us they could not compare.

Spirits danced in evening light, green giving an eerie glow,
even if we described moonlit karma, you still wouldn't know,
what it was really like - to hear the ghosts of Isandlwana,
'You disturbed our land, now it's time for you to pay, bwana.'

We 'paid' every time we cut the grass, with love they say,
how would you satisfy the past - just surrender gracefully.