Author: Solsort

A self-seeded arrangement of

stipa tenuissima and

white nigella continues

to delight me; as flowers

fade, the textured seed-balls

rattle with ripening seed

and their subtle colours weave

among the sun-bleached stipa.

Preparing to recreate

and extend this little patch

somewhere more convenient

excites my green thinking

collecting seeds, digging,

weeding; planning something

that will no longer be a

happy accident I feel

the thrill, anticipation

of glorious renewal

as the rest of my garden

billows in the full throttle

of summer’s maturity.

Spotlight on the new shed, detracts;

plants just background to a focus

on tools, on their neat, orderly

arrangement in the pristine white

of their new home. And then the axe,

my own cabinet reshuffle,

just-in-case, might-come-in-handy

stuff bites the dust – makes its way to

recycling; treasures that might still

be useful, die for lack of skills.

The quirky of the old shed risks

being swallowed up in modern

plastic practicality; in

the rationality of small.

A shrinking world, until my eye

returns to sky unlimited,

the uncaged bird, and the toadflax

still escaping over walls.

The velvet cloak of night

wraps it’s comforting curve

out to the horizon

where a cheeky line of

petticoat pink reveals

the legend of shepherd’s

delight; and white blossom

shimmers it’s exotic

enticement to hairy

and plump little winged things

who, in their turn attract

the shadow-flight of the

sonar expert, the bat

echolocating it’s

way to a midnight feast.

Unknown voices penetrate

the silence, and the stealth.

The nighttime world, respite

from the dry fireball

of Helios, domain

of Selene, is humid

and heavy in mystery

and all oblivious

to the watchful padding

of a small sleek feline.

I’ve painted my shed; new shed

arrived nappy brown, and I,

not under the mass delusion

that equates that shade with real

wood, set-to with a paint brush:

a soft exterior green

to blend, and a white inside

wash, to banish dim dull light

whilst minimising the poop

tint with a great background for

some favourite quotes, painted

hearts, and flowers. My new shed

starts it’s time in my garden

in real neat folksy style,

already providing home,

shelter for spiders and bugs

as well as spikes and prongs,

tools by which I encourage;

buckets and brooms for tidy,

together with weapons of

mass destruction, my last chance

rescue for plants on the brink;

being munched to extinction.

push assertively past the long

strappy leaves of agapanthus;

starburst blossom still cocooned, hid

from view whilst racing for the skies.

One, unfolding high above the rest,

reveals the tiny green-seed pearls

nestled, bursting to unfurl stars

that defy the predatory

gobble and munch, looking always

glamorous; green, white elegance

rich in pollen and with nectar

attracting winged things, feeding bees.

Gleaming into the night, lingering

long into the seasons as the

black seeds ripen and swell, scatter

and settle low into the ground.

I didn’t expect such summer storms,

lilies thrown to the ground, mulch broadcast

like gobstopper seeds; and the tall, black

aeonium broken, one of its

five laden branches hanging by a

fibrous link to its trunk. Lucifer

flashing vibrant red to meet the light

forking from awesome cloud activity

trembling in the vast variety

of thunderous expression. I didn’t

expect a carpet of fatsia

fingers, flat and rapidly loosing

turgor pressure. And I didn’t think

the Japanese anemone would

ever feel happy enough to bloom;

but between the chaos of damage

long strong blossoming stems protrude from

a plant that has finally produced

fine, broad, dark-green, healthy foliage

gorgeous in its new destination.

Why is it inevitable that the perfect day

is stuffed to the brim with meetings

in long, dull-dark rooms? That the warmth

of sun-gold falls on green things strutting

in my absence, crackling a skyward explosion,

bestowing their favour on the empty of my

absence while I hang on the pling of an email

or tra-la of a text pinning me to the spot

of the all important face-to-face in rooms

where open windows are the closest we get

to real day, to fingers tangled in grass,

to pollen tickling and bare toes browning.

Why does my creative expression

take place in a vaulted shell

with no access to the living daylight?

to trees; red magic to protect the space from harm.

Lost in my memories and sadly invisible

to google is the origin, but the idea

lives in my garden. Flapping lazy from the laurel

trees are the soft shades of green and gold, and the bolder

black and gold interflora ribbon ties that carried

flower hugs and scents of joy, colours of heartfelt words

here to my home to protect me from the loneliness

of missing; to clad me in the protection of love;

and woven into a now empty nest, one faded

green gold braid speaks it’s own poignant message of blackbirds

safely fledged, dancing now impatiently on the fence.

I wake to a bowl of pink and blue

christening almonds. The softest blue,

the gentlest sugared pink of morning

sky that holds its breath until the call

of birdsong interrupts and blushes

gold, an orange, turquoise bloom on fire.

The misted ball of latent heat waits

as earth rolls over into daytime

here where white lilies crack open like

green eggs to reveal hints of white and

and matching orange fire in tiger

strong stamens bristling with pollen gold.

I sneeze and survey the wandering splash

of Ann Folkard, collapsing after

strenuous effort to invade the

fire garden. She has to go. Now.

Lucifer leans to the cleared spaces

clashing with orange, brown day-lilies

but leaving room for the self-sown pink

Japanese anemone to claim

territory and blush behind the

glossy green of spent bergenia.