garden leaks – Page 6 – Vienna Solsort

2014-08-02

night-time

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.

2014-07-282014-07-28

black, white and green

close up view of a cluster of black aeonium 'florets', glistening with water droplets. The leaves, aranged like rose petals, are glossy black when they reach maturity, but at the heart of the plant the newer leaves are blood-red and deep pink tinged with green. — aeonium survivor

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.

2014-07-25

exploding agapanthus

looking down on the strappy green leaves of a large agapanthus plant, there are four flowerheads in various developing stages and part of a solid rusty brown obelisk is visible, top middle-right. — flower bombs

Bulbous lances on narrow green,

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.

2014-07-21

lucifer and lightening

on a green background of peony leaves, Japanese acer and bergenia, tattered spikes of crocosmia leaves still point skyward and the firey blossoms look unaffected by the storms. — Lucifer unbowed

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.

2014-07-18

perfect day

looking into the heart of hemerocallis, the day lily - this one has pinky-orange flowers, with yellow stamens; the strappy green leaves are a backdrop for buds, blooms and the darker dried-up spent blossom that needs dead-heading. there is a solitary magenta coloured geranium intruding in the bottm left-hand corner. — day lily strutting its stuff

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?

2014-07-142014-07-14

garden wards

sun-bleached bamboo wind-chime hanging over green-gold ferns and slightly masked by the spikes of a green cordyline — blowing in the wind

Years ago I read about a man who tied ribbons

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.

2014-07-11

geranium invasion

close up of the geranium Ann Folkard with a tangle of large, fingered green leaves and two purple pink flowers with dark magenta centres. it grows 60-70 cms tall and self seeds prolifically. — Ann Folkard, I presume.

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.

2014-07-07

rumbles and rain

frilly edged green leaves of alchemila mollis, with pearls of water balanced on them as if by magic. A few strands of the fine elegant grass, stipa tenuissima, are seen in front of them. — alchemy

Softly uniform pearl grey, the day

creeps in under the lost horizon

and shades of green peak in bright yellows,

aching to catch the first strands of gold

that will turn cradled dewdrops into

tiny fairground mirrors; the moment

comes and goes. A silent wren darts back

to the privet as distant rumbles

change the nature of expectations.

The cat abandons it’s casual

indifference; elegant, lolloping

with intent, its semi-urgent gait

leading to the open greenhouse door.

2014-07-04

translating the secret garden

a winding brick and cobble pathway through an arch of greenery; mostly Fatsia Japonoca, but also bamboo and pine — secret garden

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.

2014-06-30

Early morning rain, a waiting grey,
expressively silent blanket on
birdworld, collects and dribbles from the
poetic leaves of my overgrown
fatsia. Each spring I assess the
growth, the space, the possibilities,
wrestle with ‘to prune or not to prune’
the question stretching out over time;
the fatsia stretching fledgling leaves
out over the secret garden path.
Late, I chop the emerging dragon
wings, guardians vying with spears of
samurai bamboo to conceal, not
close, access to a privacy of
green clipped box, black strappy lily-grass
formal seating that collects heat in
drystone walls and yet devolves to spread
fairy tales of fleabane and toadflax in
recurring mists of white nigella.