When summer beats upon the shore,
we’ll stand and watch its hue, allured
by Nature’s power and grace, as if
in awe… as if in her immortal face
we find some comfort, some respite
from human cares.
So in my prayers I call the sea,
in dreams I gather clouds;
beyond all bounds I call on Nature’s dignity
to dress this broken rock
with warmth and tender flowers.
Summer rain gambols
nimbly through tree tops,
Dodging snapped twigs
And the detritus of a summer
With moisture at a premium.
Summer rain plays
Tunes on thirsty leaves
Teasing their turned up tongues
With the promise of refreshment
Then running hither-thither.
Summer rain dances
Down summer bark
Rescuing hardy shrubs
And crisp hot grass
catapulting off cobwebs
And wetting our faces
turned upwards, to the sky.
To Summer, the fragile three-feather head dress
is a reminder of a vision she once wore,
of a sparkling pool, a seed picnic strewn with friends,
and she a glorious Bird of Paradise.
But to Summer’s lover, as his autumn approaches,
that wretched flash of white feathers
is an imposition, a symbol of southward flight,
a triad of bright hopes waiting to be dashed –
the sky high damage potential of impermanent bliss.
There was a –
dragon and dancing and carving and cup cakes
and raffles and bunting wound right round the
houses we waved at and talking and meeting with feathers
and flowered balloon men who bent them and gave them
to children who used them to sword fight and held up
a pound to amuse them by guessing or laughing
and dipping their fingers to show us a gift from
their shining excitement inviting us joining
with knots and steel bands and with hands
held together we picked up and packed up
our carnival treasures tucked into our costumes
we danced on our way.
Today, midweek, I’m garden chilling,
no pesky mean metal mamas mowing,
they are the weekend boys.
Nope, just me and the big blue sky
and hey, you know what even?
That old Sun is shining.
Then what happens? Dang.
Those flaunty sparrows tip the Tit and Jay
I’ve got seed!
and that’s the end of peace for today.
They get so close I am moving up!
In my own garden! Seriously.
But this is not the main deal yet –
Well bless my odd socks,
the entire ‘nature thing’ begins
make the biggest darn racket ever:
bees bumbling, crows cawing,
old man Slug chewing on me lupin…
My garden so loud the world is rocking!
Well, think on it. Be churlish to vamoose.
This is some kind of party, maybe?
Nature doing what Nature does pretty well.
So
I am coming out, creepy sneaking
from under my pot. Segments waving,
fourteen hip dancing legs grooving at a time.
Get with Nature’s freaky beat,
Coz, creatures, we are the party!
we are the real deal.
I’m telling you. Come on down my garden!
Give it some WOODLOUSE WELLY!
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.
Squeezing lingering succulence from sun’s evening bloom
our ripe orange fruit falls fragrantly, dripping juice
licked in sinuous strings from stinging fingers.
Language of late summer bounty streaming between us
sipped ginger whets autumnal anticipation
whilst we reap sweet nectar, wild and stolen.
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.
aplaceforpoetry 