I start and end my day with pen and paper,
my garden translates black and white on the page
and, in the early morning sun, words demand
expression as I hasten to pin them down
abandoning pen in favour of finger
and thick creamy cartridge paper in favour
of the slippery-smooth touch sensitive screen.
In the evening, when the white garden beckons
and I relax my gaze, the pen doodles and
scribbles it’s way from quality paper to
torn envelopes, blank corners of bank statements
and the backs of old shopping lists. All the while
knowing that as dusk cools the heat from the day
fat little bodies creep out of hiding to
party and feast on the juicy greenness of
abundance that, perfect, delights my eye and
tattered into spikes and fragile lace ribbons
spurs me to a merciless performance of
squashy, squelchy-green, crunchy executions.