night-time

a night-time photo of a white agapanthus in bloom; the green stems of the full circle of white flower-lets meet in the dark middle against a black background
seduction
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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

poetic leaves

close-up of a large green leaf of Fatsia Japonica with pearls of rainwater, against a background of garden greenery
fatsia in the rain
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.