Category: garden leaks

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.

Discarded salopettes,

zippered woollen hoodie

and the Don-alike sheepskin

protect me from razor wind;

hunkered close to the earth,

warm in the full glare of

midday sun, I’m repeating

the springtime ritual,

weeding cheeky primrose

from their favoured path,

hoping to relocate them

to the whim of my choosing.

Light beckons

pleated folds

of cyclamen

to peep through mottled heart

mounds of leaves;

draws swords of

hyacinth;

and hellebore

rosing shy faces, sun

beaming bright;

stellata

hints swellings

on branches

yet brown and bare

and pale wisps of snakes head

twist from earth

still ringing

snowdrop bells

and hiding

black, hairy

fiddleheads, hushed

by cold wind, reluctant

to unfurl

crosiers,

but waiting,

just waiting.

In speckled blue of spring eggs

splatted, Krabbelurer but

regular, with flecks of gold,

returning iris thrust through

winter soil to catch my breath;

shyly full of mystery

Unlike their midnight cousins’

deeply silent contrasts, these

sing with soft promises of

life; age and innocence of

love, of laced fragrance and hope;

bleached magic of summer sun.

A forever winding road.