Author: Solsort

Meercat alert, tips of honeysuckle

peer attentive, curious, from above

the lilac breaking green, faintly purple

even, bursting into springtime raiment.

Winding ways up the ancient ivy-clad

trunk, the honeysuckle gathers and clumps

before stretching out long slim necks in search

of further destinations, there it waits

as the lilac swells heavy purple blooms

among bountiful heart shaped leaves.

The honeysuckle, greening early, turns

it’s pointy snout with the breeze, just biding

time until the blousy lilac, the red

peonies, confetti the waiting ground;

ostentation nose-diving while wiry

tenacity holds the honeysuckle

bloom longer further from its origins

as companion to baggeson’s gold.

Tomato stain smudged on pristine cloth

sun blushes mild red through the whiteout,

singular evidence that the world

does not end at the bottom of my

garden and grounds for hope that the day

might reveal blue sky in time for the

morning green tea ritual; taken

these days gazing at the empty space

where the new bench will settle into

it’s own. Even as I write, treetops

emerge from the mist, still skeleton;

but, closer to the house, Skeeters Broom

uncurls blood red fingers nudging at

the gap. Nothing waits, the table is

laid, consumed, relaid; the morning tea

fractal

I’ve ordered a new garden bench,

the old one has slowly lost form;

it’s patched and faded wood crumbles

under scaly layers of paint

while the backrest sidles away.

Gluing and screwing no longer

maintains its functionality

though it still looks ok with a

basket of bulbs perched on the seat.

But the new one will bring back some

dignity to the sunny spot

just under the kitchen window.

The day arrives without fluster

quiet dawn makes a slow reveal

behind grey masquerading cloud

relaxed after yesterday’s wild

bluster. The heavy rolls persist

their couch-potato languor, idle

imitations of persistent

winter foiled by the gleam of spring,

confident now, established by

ladybirds, lily beetle, bees,

butterflies, wood louse – all manner

of fluttering, scurrying, creep;

and beady eyes of foraging

birds intent on satisfying

the constant hunger of new life.

The tiny dinosaur cousins

evolving in my laurel hedge

will soon, too soon, be stretching out

their newly feathered wings, dancing

on the fence, glossy in summer

sun, singing their very own song.

Daggers of light bounce from glossy laurel

through reaching petals of translucent white

stellata; elegant blooms turned to the

sun, shivering like the swan lake chorus

echoing melancholy through strong gusts

of bitter wind. Fingers of fatsia

flash diamond gleams, shafts from clapping hands

robust enough to capture wild sunbeams

bouquets for the prima ballerina;

the adoration of the evergreen

for the fleeting miracles of springtime.

Blood red rubies scattered on the ground

glistening under bleeding skies; magnet

to my aching heart, my tiger pounce

among decomposing leaves, winter

greyed gravel and lilac twigs fallen

in turmoil as winter storms regret

the leaving of this secret jungle.

The rubies, blood red rosy tips; hard,

swollen from the ground, resist and sing

remember me, remember me: Ann

Folkard, I dance restless, scramble wild

among your drifts and avenues. Bring

chaos to the order, smother bronze

pillows over less robust jewels

mark their graves with black eyed purple stains.

Remember me, remember, I am

the resurrection, blood red bleeding

reaching, grasping, racing for the sun;

my scream-pink posies, cat-claw seed pods

untamed magic: eye of newt, toe of

frog, wool of bat, tongue of dog, rising;

rising tiger, bleeding dragon tears

spilling out, way, way beyond your grasp.

Soon I will need to step out of my garden

onto some other stage for this poetic blog;

it will have been one year and the reveal, to be

a reveal, needs to show that I do more than

tinker with my computer, potter around

my patch of earth. These are the bones of my days,

regular shape on which to hang the poet,

the artist, the creative identity

without which I cease to be me, cease to be

cohesive; fragment into marking time. Time

without purpose, filled by consumption; dreaming

of chocolate, cherry twig tea, gently steamed

egg, toasted sunflower seeds, ginger baked salmon,

peanut-pineapple curry. Lunch flavoured with

sea breezes, dinner savoured with warm moonlight,

eating out, eating in, the food of life might

be enough?

The season of deceitfulness calls me

out of my slumber with a clear blue sky

and flaming rose-gold sunrise, promises

of warmth in my bones and the inner glow

of new life. Calls me, thrills me; and leaves me,

hopes dashed by a silent army of grey

gliding surreptitiously over the blue,

smothering nascent gold in the vestige

of constant dull, tenacious cold, the wet

winter commitment unrivalled by spring’s

flighty capriciousness, playing the game,

the hide and seek game, well past its use by;

well past my capacity for belief;

igniting strategies of denial;

and yet. I still dream of the golden dawn

extending bright beams like welcoming arms.

Planting time February to April;

I bury them deeply in potting compost,

add bridal daffodils ready to unsheathe

their wedding gowns, and neat clumps of something

dainty and green with tiny white blossom;

something to look at now, while I wait, but

don’t wait. Immersing myself in this now,

this foretaste of springtime, birdsong and

daylight; not looking beyond the season

of lively and energetic hope; warmth

in the deeply comforting outdoor days

that promise, that swear, that this time it’s for real.

Fabulous fat bumble

trumbles sleepily

through the sunny

places, amazes my

unconvinced heart;

is this the herald?

rumbling springtime

while I hide behind

double glazing, the

warm illusion and

clear, blue sky thinking

insufficient proof

for the cynic within.