A cynical poem for gardens

Getting dirt under our nails
bothers our tidy minds
as do the bric a brac, cupboards jam-packed with jam jars
that don't match
because our shiny home so bright
we see our reflection in
shows up the dirt on our sheeny boots.

So we pack away the tired old things,
the objets that don't match
we bury the soil,
bury the bugs,
tramp down the worms,
scare away the bees
that need the trees,
that feed our afternoon teas.

We uproot the shrubs and put in a cordyline or three.
It is a  local environment take over bid
No habitat is thine
but an tidy outdoor room
where one might dine
gas heater, and all
and a silver spoon or two
(to see our reflections in.)