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I love to sit in the garden in summer, and as long as the rain isn't too heavy I'll sit and watch the drama unfold.
The garden is a busy and heavily populated place of little characters. If you wait in silence...

The Garden

Fdf5205c-8b5b-4da8-a6dc-63fe28d680a9by Billy J. Stewart14 Jan 2014

In raindrops falling curtain,
‘neath the bows of velvet trunk,
Lies in effervescent flush of verdant crown,
The garden.
There on slate, upon the step of crumbling borders
Sits the frog, still as stone, scenting the wind,
Sampling the air of nature’s bounty,
Devouring flies by the dozen.
I watch from the log, as the robin ‘lights…
And then I see it.
The glove I lost last year, by mulching pit.
It sits among the leaves from winter past,
Mocking me with upraised finger!
Ha!
Here’s looking at you, my eco-warrior hand!
Comes the sun, comes the damsel fly to hover down
Beside the pond,
And basking in the rising heat she thinks of laying eggs.
I should have moved that fork I poked in grass last week.
But now it stands, a royal perch for blackbird,
Bold as brass,
Who sung me awake this morning,
In chorus choir a-chanting.
Then vandalised my borders in hungry frenzy.
“What have you to crow about!?” I smile
My self-congratulatory wit, methinks.
Just there,
A rustle, a hustle, a bustle,
In hedgehog alley.
I wait, afraid to breathe, heart in pounding sprint.
She moves off,
Sweet wriggling worm in mouth to savour,
Oblivious to my intrusive stare.
Ah behold the lily, white and bulbous,
Soon to burst with heaven’s scent.
But there the poppy pokes up
Through earth in clustered clumps,
Where I had never set it near.
Can green have ever been so, well, green!?
And what of this, oh sweet annual,
Sown by wind and placed in perfect pitch.
I had forgotten you,
But not the earth.
And here you are again.
How can the garden do this?
I mean, it’s me, the master.
Isn’t it?