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At last, those of us members who live in the colder northern climes, can see the signs of spring - it always feels like an age of cold and darkness. And it always seems like an unlikely miracle that the green and flowers and really long, light days are returning! This is a poem about how the garden starts to 'wake up'...

Guttural Green Sound In The Garden

Gillian_ferguson_photo_high_resby Gillian K Ferguson09 Mar 2014

A guttural green sound in the wrecked garden.

Cough of spring earth
clearing its croaked winter throat.
Frost-phlegm. Crepuscular catarrh.

A chartreuse virus in flotsam wings.
Shimmer of lime on shivering tree bones,
hazing the naked lilac.

An emerald germ fuzzes zombie stems,
infects ghost leaves; proliferates –
peripheral motes in the listening eye:
spirit of Hartshorn notes in fox-bright nose.

Until the cured poem of the recorded garden -
her freshly-penned verses, pristine vocabulary of verdure,
prints of articulated species, must be spoken aloud
in the opened amphitheatre of the showy season.

Crammed, crumpled speech
of nervous, first-time, tight-stomached buds
must punctually burst forth from sticky hoods,
opening flowery vowels -
amended scripts held in burning arthritic nubs,
elderly chillblained fingers.

The romantic genre of the Rose,
dreamy Poppy sonnets,
white Lily’s religious lyric,
will be ecstatically performed - birds clapping
panegyric wings, singing praises.
Groundling speech of common Daisies
storming the lawn; catchy Nasturtium limericks,
bawdy Pansy comedy, slam poetry of punk Dandelions,
Red Hot Poker and vulgar Tulip farce – all programmed.
Daffodils will do the warm up
on heroic graves of snowdrops and hoarse crocus.
Luminous, heavenly blue Delphinium stanzas -
murmured even under a posh audience of twilight stars
in finest old-family diamonds.
Honeysuckle’s sweet mothy lullaby sung.

All read in rhyming language
of the wet green mud-mouth
which recited out of the swamp.

Culturing a cast of dazzling blooms,
enchanting perfumes: desideratum love of bees.
From such unpromising materials -
crushed star-seed; water and light for food and blood.
Unknown talents of invisible passion.
Flower spirals rising out of nothing that was –
as an act of faith. On imaginary Earth.
Is now. With bells, bows - nectar and beauty on!

Still rehearsing now

for summer’s lush, colourful sonnets.
Her epic dramas, thespian flourish; flamboyant costumes.
Endless scenes while the light lasts. Bee chorus.

Such rapturous golden evening soliloquies.