When you plant a pot of joy
It’s not sophisticated,
Nor filled with such unusual stuff
it grows too complicated.
In fact, it’s more what is left out:
All angst and consternation,
The kind of things you hear about
In troubling conversation.
No, when you plant a pot of joy
It overflows with colour;
It’s filled with smiles and kindly words
and pleases like no other.
No matter what you plant it in,
On sill or stony mound
A pot of joy puts out strong roots
and spreads the joy around.
in locked allotments
bracing brass monkey feet
with clenched teeth
through frozen clods
customarily turning over old leaves
and gripping glass
her pinkie finger tip.
As shock welled
to fill iced water butts
she saw her isolation reflected hard as winter
and lifting her mangled digit
staggered bleeding to the gate.
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.
life limited bounty
so easy to neglect and lose
I am looking at you
through a tiny hole.
It took some doing
but I dug like a mole.
I grew you some onions, some beans and some rice
and I’ve cooked them all up into something nice.
I’ve tied a basket on a string and I’m passing it through
the hole in the world that I made to reach you.