Meanders around the rose-beds, gnarled, clay-brown,
Old Tom the pruner, snic-snac up and down.
‘Look, Tom, you’ve snipped a young shoot from the tree!’
‘Aye, so I have; but I bean’t ashamed,’ says he,
‘The Lord Hisself has made mistakes ere now.
Come Lammastide ’twere twenty year ago
He said, ‘Old Tom’s turn now,’ and upped His shears –
My son He took, the young green sprig o’ the tree,
The garden’s pride.
Mebbee He’m gettin’ old and tired; mebbe
His eyes be smudged like mine awhiles with tears
For a strong son as died.’