June 3, 2010
As lilacs pass over, wild geraniums take on the purple
Lavender makes a fast advance as bluebells hit the dust
I make way for over-the-top gladiolas whilst foxgloves
Threaten to make hay while the sun shines.
A self-seeded acer with its magical twin-trunk darkens my window
Protectively covering a mass of long stemmed daisy-types, herbs gone mad,
Wild strawberries, ivy topsy-turvy but an old red rose holds her own.
Meantime, over on the veggie garden patch, all sorts of salads
Demand attention: the wintering-over rainbow chard wins
First prize, a close second to the burgeoning celery plant,
An agro-fen-favourite—like the innumerable beet seedlings
Who make a nuisance of themselves—silly me,
Using their throw-away compost—how could they not claim back
What’s naturally theirs, this clay-rich dark fenland soil?
Who manages who, the garden or the gardener?
Pan smiles from around the corner of the arbor
Where the White Goddess holds court, veiled from
Ordinary eyes by a massive overgrowth of white roses and jasmine
Old with scent, Lucy Boston[1] will be proud of me
When she crosses the Threshold to mind matters
Here on this side, her silver slippers leaving tell-tale tracks.
And the trees, the adorable Cherry, more fruitful each year.
A lesson to the slim but fruitless Apricot whose secret
I have not yet divined—ah, the Fig who promises much
But drops its fruit in its determination to grow monster
Fig leaves as if it knows The Fall is coming.
And our careful favourite, out of sight from Sweet Cherry,
The Lemon Tree that produces yellow lemons all year round.
How could I not love an English Garden overmuch?