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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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Last revised: September 30, 2020