INTRODUCING THE HOP
The trellis arch wants something to disguise
its creosoted newness. Her plan needs
a careful purchase, one that shoots and spreads
untamed, to contrast with the flowerbeds
so neatly planted, innocent of weeds,
an Eden for the snake to recognise.
Off to the garden centre. Soon the hop
has settled in, surging its lime-green leaves
on serpent stalks, curling into the air,
sticky, persistent, catching in her hair
as she ducks past. It has designs on Eve's
serenity. She knows it. This must stop.
Her armoury lies ready on the shelf:
white cotton gloves, bright sharpened secateurs.
But intertwining stems reach round her waist,
entangling her in wildness, a foretaste
of fallen pleasures that could still be hers
if she would lose the plot and find herself.
TERRACING
A tapestry of plants drapes down the cliff,
pegged into height by paths, stone platters, beds
hedged by wild lilacs, rhododendrons, stiff
conifers. Start low, press the zigzag treads
with feet that wonder at the kinky climb
to airborne lettuces and floating sheds,
to cloud-capped bird-baths, parachuting thyme,
azaleas that glide like butterflies.
Listen to the campanulas which chime
from towering ledges where hydrangeas rise
blue against sky reflected in the sea.
The landscaper, Earth-mover in disguise,
has tipped on end horizontality,
lifted our level eyes from now to if,
released for our flat nostrils a fresh whiff
of soaring phlox and dizzy rosemary.
ALLEGRO
ma non troppo
Someone conducts this garden from a score
marked with restraint: 'Be bright but not too much.'
The fuschia nods restraint, the fennel waves
agreement - and they try - but on the staves
of branches hang too many notes. I touch
fruit, petals, leaves and hear the brightness pour.
It's overgrown with colour, quick and light
and far too much to keep within the plot:
the maestro can't control these laden plums;
blackcurrants riot as the quince tree drums
a roll...they're on a roll...they're off...but not
allegro any more - and much too bright
SEPTEMBER
Uncertain, in this garden, seasons move
marked by the relaxation of a rose
and two leaves falling. Dew invades my feet;
I am the one, the only one, to know
that ice will come to take the tamed foxglove.
But out there, out at sea, the waves have found
new forces, winter power: they crash and swell
on colder shingle, warn me to retreat.
I have no salt moon almanacs to tell
me what they only know or who they've drowned.
I'll walk away from gardens, run from shores,
leave scattered petals, driftwood - except one
still-open flower and useful log. I cheat
the darkening world, defeat the watery sun
with vases, fires, dry thoughts behind thick doors.
STOPWATCH
A passing midge ignores the well-spun clock
made by a measuring spider, now withdrawn
from its own sticky dial. Nothing warns
the gnat, soft-drifting to the hollyhock:
its cooling sun is warm enough until
a robin hops and clicks away today.
The teasel, purple abacus, won't play
at telling weeks. I fear the winterkill
but, like that spider, quit my careful web.
Instead I'll ambush leaves before the fall,
time out to juggle suns and moons like balls
on beaches where the tides forget to ebb.
The calendar's a man-trap - so's the glass
where fingers point to marked lines as years pass.
To return to Home page click here
The trellis arch wants something to disguise
its creosoted newness. Her plan needs
a careful purchase, one that shoots and spreads
untamed, to contrast with the flowerbeds
so neatly planted, innocent of weeds,
an Eden for the snake to recognise.
Off to the garden centre. Soon the hop
has settled in, surging its lime-green leaves
on serpent stalks, curling into the air,
sticky, persistent, catching in her hair
as she ducks past. It has designs on Eve's
serenity. She knows it. This must stop.
Her armoury lies ready on the shelf:
white cotton gloves, bright sharpened secateurs.
But intertwining stems reach round her waist,
entangling her in wildness, a foretaste
of fallen pleasures that could still be hers
if she would lose the plot and find herself.
TERRACING
A tapestry of plants drapes down the cliff,
pegged into height by paths, stone platters, beds
hedged by wild lilacs, rhododendrons, stiff
conifers. Start low, press the zigzag treads
with feet that wonder at the kinky climb
to airborne lettuces and floating sheds,
to cloud-capped bird-baths, parachuting thyme,
azaleas that glide like butterflies.
Listen to the campanulas which chime
from towering ledges where hydrangeas rise
blue against sky reflected in the sea.
The landscaper, Earth-mover in disguise,
has tipped on end horizontality,
lifted our level eyes from now to if,
released for our flat nostrils a fresh whiff
of soaring phlox and dizzy rosemary.
ALLEGRO
ma non troppo
Someone conducts this garden from a score
marked with restraint: 'Be bright but not too much.'
The fuschia nods restraint, the fennel waves
agreement - and they try - but on the staves
of branches hang too many notes. I touch
fruit, petals, leaves and hear the brightness pour.
It's overgrown with colour, quick and light
and far too much to keep within the plot:
the maestro can't control these laden plums;
blackcurrants riot as the quince tree drums
a roll...they're on a roll...they're off...but not
allegro any more - and much too bright
SEPTEMBER
Uncertain, in this garden, seasons move
marked by the relaxation of a rose
and two leaves falling. Dew invades my feet;
I am the one, the only one, to know
that ice will come to take the tamed foxglove.
But out there, out at sea, the waves have found
new forces, winter power: they crash and swell
on colder shingle, warn me to retreat.
I have no salt moon almanacs to tell
me what they only know or who they've drowned.
I'll walk away from gardens, run from shores,
leave scattered petals, driftwood - except one
still-open flower and useful log. I cheat
the darkening world, defeat the watery sun
with vases, fires, dry thoughts behind thick doors.
STOPWATCH
A passing midge ignores the well-spun clock
made by a measuring spider, now withdrawn
from its own sticky dial. Nothing warns
the gnat, soft-drifting to the hollyhock:
its cooling sun is warm enough until
a robin hops and clicks away today.
The teasel, purple abacus, won't play
at telling weeks. I fear the winterkill
but, like that spider, quit my careful web.
Instead I'll ambush leaves before the fall,
time out to juggle suns and moons like balls
on beaches where the tides forget to ebb.
The calendar's a man-trap - so's the glass
where fingers point to marked lines as years pass.
To return to Home page click here
