A garden has a lot to teach
When in my life I overreach,
Reminding me to find the place
Beneath my feet, where earth’s embrace
Will give me all I ever need
To reap the love I sewed from seed,
For though life’s secrets will unfold
And I must wander till I’m old
It is a garden filled with flowers
Where I will spend my happiest hours.
My choice to speak and dare to do
I share with other people too,
my own convictions – foul or fair
are seeds propelled in gifted air.
But even if my thoughts seem fixed,
with time or conversation mixed
they may be tempered, tinkered, turned
by what I heard, saw, did or learned.
So in my darkest/finest hours
when often I express my flowers
it is of boldness I partake
and I must know the mark I make.
We may all be wasted seeds
blown along by the autumn breeze
scared and scattered
scarred and shattered
but if we work together hard enough
if we plough and sow and reap our love
there will be sunflowers this time next year
there will definitely be sunflowers, dear.
In our English country garden
morning arrives for breakfast
clothed in misty vagueness
to find arachnid market traders
already skilfully threading
silver baskets between bushes where
a snail’s early yawning turns the head
of a song thrush hoarse from dawn
dew drying in the wan sun smiling
weakly at Fuchsia drunk on rich ruby pallet
who bow to orange Montbretia and ageing
Buddleia bracing itself for the arrival
of those blooming butterfly and bee
bounders regardless of a definite
chill we sit thin jacketed drinking
coffee and eating bread spread
with cherry plum jam ruminating
on the day ahead and the need for
autumn preparation and repair.
Performing players string and bow
under rumbustious sun umbrellas
propelled against the rain.
Clouds cracked by lusty voice
spill over bastion hills.
And we, joyous in our hour;
splendid wined and friended,
briefly bloom and rise to stir the air:
Balloons and buttercups.