From a garden, to the chief amongst its flowers
I have felt so cared for.
You have tended me and nurtured me,
and chopped me, and re-shaped me,
and dug me, and
Pulled me out, and
Mangled me, and
Pruned me.
But always with such care.
You have turned me
From a common or garden garden in East Oxford
To a garden which, at the dead of night,
Strutts its stuff
At the Gardeners Arms
And after a few pints
Says to them other gardens:
"I bet you wish you 'ad
one of 'em like I 'ave."
I'll miss you, Ros.
I'll miss you coming out to sit in me
Bringing your mates
Drinking your wine
And laughing that infectious laugh of yours.
I'll miss your humour
I'll miss your smile
I'll miss your voice
I'll miss your style.
Seasons come and seasons go
Sometimes its sunny, sometimes its wetter.
But your mark's forever, Ros,
You've changed me for the better.
