The garden

Poem by Roger Iredale

Who they were, what they did, and which one
was to blame is what the merry-go-round of sages
pondered, dancing on the proverbial pin.

And pondered also down the ages if
the sin was ersatz or original, or even half
and half, and if it started with a forked tongue

or was it there already waiting before the viper
stung? Was it hidden in the bushes before
the deadly nightshade came to light? When

roses and the brambles grew thornless and
applies were always ripe? And did sex begin
at the start of sin, or was it pure and joyless

fit for purpose, as yet without desire? And why
in any case was a talking snake wriggling through
herbaceous borders when lions were lying down

with lambs, eating grass and currants,
famished for the absence of good meat?
It would be a treat to know the answers

to half the questions that it poses,
but god knows who could tell us when
roses grew their petulant thorns and men

learned death and loot were one and same,
and no one was to blame for murder
in the name of profit, war and shame.

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