poetic leaves

Early morning rain, a waiting grey,
expressively silent blanket on
birdworld, collects and dribbles from the
poetic leaves of my overgrown
fatsia. Each spring I assess the
growth, the space, the possibilities,
wrestle with ‘to prune or not to prune’
the question stretching out over time;
the fatsia stretching fledgling leaves
out over the secret garden path.
Late, I chop the emerging dragon
wings, guardians vying with spears of
samurai bamboo to conceal, not
close, access to a privacy of
green clipped box, black strappy lily-grass
formal seating that collects heat in
drystone walls and yet devolves to spread
fairy tales of fleabane and toadflax in
recurring mists of white nigella.