where gardeners hang on the words of an old-timer's
prescriptive soil in hand, turning on a twist of lemon sunshine,
that languishes forever on the limpid water butts of mind.
Hard upon the land allotted to each man's time of day,
in soil-soothed tweed coats and string held trousers,
and boots of fresh turned earth and more.
Of caked hands dried a tan mongrel powder,
leaning on the rakes and spades of spring.
Weaving the thoughts of summer around the sad
azure fires of smell and smoulder, weeping
along the stepping board's twine lines that
appoint the drills for seeds in chitting for a
green sward of cotyledons that will tremble
in the rough and tumble of the lamb winds of March.
Sun seated between work and rain in a cobweb shed,
or upon the gnarled bench thoughts of every gardener
who has toiled and tilled until the day was sown,
and the sky wished for a perfect sun and rain dish,
off the menu of a nursery of all the dinners of summer.
Fresh drawn from the soil, quick cooked,
butter soft and flavoursome of all the times that have ever been.
The allotment, manured again in the trenches of spring,
rising up to heaven in a quiet hoeing of the soul, and
back home in time for a high-tea, tableclothed,
straw hatted, and buzzing to snooze
in a spring garden tingling on the cusp.
No comments:
Post a Comment