Category: garden leaks

Rainbow shiny black, like severed digits

from a hostage hand, two feathers lying

still attached to skin, caught my attention;

remains of a wing, it’s iridescence

yet dancing on the lifeless, broken form

drew my gaze to the rest of the carnage;

remains of a disembowelled corvid

the naked, blue tinted breast hollowed out,

headless, discarded on the frozen ground

it’s smell lingering. Not my favourite

aspect of the garden; the balance of

wild with carefully manicured spaces

often overlooks the taking of life;

and the unpredictability

of the process of killing.

Box, like wind tossed galleons

dip and sway, pointing bows in

a confused piggle of rough

seas until I approach with

sharp steel; intent on trimming

galleons back to tiny

ballerinas, elegant

in a chorus-line of green

twirl, interspersed with tutus

of budding peonies in

deep heart-red, each one dancing

to memories of music

composed before time began;

before galleons, before sopranos,

sallied forth to encompass

the stage, their world, with their girth.

The hellebor hides fat white buds

low under broad grey-green leaves;

like armour-plating they extend

sharp-edged fingers of strong, thick

protection that lie low in frosts

but stretch out in the sunlight

revealing their newborn charges

swelling on the bosom of earth.

Hordes of glittered ball gowns stream

urgently through my garden,

twirl and melt among diamonds

cascaded from the necks of

fairytale queens; princesses

kissing frogs or fleeing midnight

mirrors weeping into dark

puddles of flash-flooded earth.

And the frenzy fades, smiles on

gentle warmth, hints and whispers

of music and dancing far

from the ice court; with colours

blazing promises of golden days

pollen crowns and nectar toasts;

awakening a rage of

stamping feet and glass slippers

shatt’ring their fury in white

shards that bite into exposed

flesh and bone, unprotected

by innocence; abandoned and

vulnerable by virtue

of age and experience.

As soft grey-green tipped white

they point skywards in small

huddles my heart lifts to see,

I ponder the thrill of

surprise; unexpected

earliness after years

of modestly awaiting

March or even April,

waiting while I purchased

more early in the greens

chose sunny planting spots

before unwinding rubber

bands, unfolding wrapped leaves;

transferring to prepared

destinations, to be

admired until their late cousins

emerged; but look, it’s still

February and the white

tips swell, point and gleam, dip

hints of green patterned bells

sing Valentine, guess who

dares to send the paper lace

dares to send the snow bells

Galanthus Nivalis,

the herald and memory of love.

Starlight, giddy overhead,

blinks on the dark mystery

of winter bones, evergreen cones

pointing hither and thither,

dancing between the highlights;

exciting eruptions of

shy rosettes, softly grey shoots

hidden in shadows of box;

twirling, teasing hints of how

the world works, how the magic

persists even when belief

sinks below the horizon.

Hush, my garden sleeps,

and I, creeping quietly,

tiptoe with sword and spear.

Loppers, pruners and the saw

that will perform the nips

and tucks that shape and size

her wild enthusiastic growth,

confine her to the boundaries

of youthful vigour soon to be

twirling round her gnarling

trunks, forgetful

of passing years,

at peace in a

present moment.

I cleave my way through

herbaceous hearts,

dividing, subtracting,

silent seeking

the holy grail

of eternal, renewal,

forever young.

I tiptoe unconvinced

by this show of sleeping.

I dream of sudden daisies

my garden skeleton,

coated in diamonds,

glitters white in the sun;

paused in winter decay

under frosted sunlight.

Shocking pink cyclamen

in defiant whisper

of hot colour to come,

curl tiny faces from

the glistening bones,

voodoo jewels piercing

the monochrome magic.

The season to be merry;

ivy bursts it’s vigorous

way through the dragon-cloud hedge,

holly and mistletoe conspicuously

absent. White cyclamen peer

through the fallen red leavings

now cinnamon shades of spiced

mulled wine. Astonishing green

profusion heralds muscari

blue, tossed and tangled in winter

whirlwinds while stouter sleepers

poke thumbs of red and greenish

through the frozen crust, unconvinced

by still-dark days to add promises

of more; of colours and textures,

glories of sight and scents, yet

clamouring in the wings of hope.