A Prose Poem (I think 🙂 )
The man next door is constantly working on his garden. He likes to look over the fence and make comments about yours. Usually they’re nice observations: ‘You’ve done wonders with the sycamore.’ ‘Love your little pond.’ ‘That Buddha’s head is exquisite.’ You wonder why you can’t do the same for him. Flatter and extol; bring him a little cheer every so often, but then you remember and retreat into the potting shed. Last summer it was the honeysuckle that suddenly wilted and died. The year before your beautiful purple clematis withered before your eyes. You’re not saying he was responsible; you’re just hoping he’s a bit more careful with the weedkiller this year, you’d hate anything to happen to his prize geraniums.