'And why in any case was a talking snake wriggling through herbaceous borders when lions were lying down with lambs, eating grass and currants...' Photo: by Mateusz Bajdak on Unsplash
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.
