Trumpet Solo

Single Daffodil by DGriebeling

Trumpet Solo

Daffodil, poor daffodil,
Stood all alone upon the hill.
Where’s the dancing crowd beside you ?
Where’s your golden host ?  Denied you !
Fluttering beneath the trees,
There surely should be more of these…?
As warmly blows the westering,
Are you the scout to test the Spring ?
Or last to rise, too long abed,
Who’s missed his chance for getting wed ?
Some blooms can stand alone and proud –
But you look lonely as a cloud.

Cecily Census

pigeons
Pigeons by Tim Dennell

Cecily Census

“Let’s count the pigeons !”  That’s just what she said,
As she pointed out a trio pecking pavement up ahead.
One was grey and one was blue and one was sandy brown –
“I bet we get to fifty by the other side of town !”
So hand-in-hand, we kept the tally,
Up the street and down the alley.

“Let’s count dandelions !” another time she said,
As she pointed out a golden host within a council bed.
Some were buds and some were clocks and some were full of roar –
“I bet we find a hundred round behind the superstore !”
So side-by-side, we kept on counting,
Till we reached the rusty fountain.

“Look at all the wrigglers !” on a rainy day she said,
As she pointed out the molluscs that had made us watch our tread.
Some were black and some were brown and some were rusty nails –
“I’ll count all the sluggies up, and you can count the snails !”
So one-by-one, we kept the score,
But I forget who had the more.

“Look at all the people !” on a sunny day she said,
As she pointed to the crowds that loitered while the man was red.
Some were old and some were young and some were inbetween –
“I bet we see a dozen more before the beeps and green !”
So back-to-back, against the crush,
We totted up the lunchtime rush.

“Look at all the pigeons !”  just the other day I said,
As I pointed out a posse crowding round a crust of bread.
Some were fat and some were thin…but none were worth her gaze –
“Oh dad, you always say that when we meet on access days.”
So that was that, no longer fun –
Our number-taking days were done.

Suburban Spruces

de-spruced

Suburban Spruces

At the meeting of the streets
And the corners of the road,
So grows an unexpected copse
No seed has ever sowed.
It sprouts up overnight
Like a fungus on the make –
This squatter on the pavement,
Brings the Winter in its wake.
Its trees have all blown over,
And its needles all have shed
To the gutters and the breezes,
Until even these have fled.
Then suddenly one morning
We shall find the corner bare,
Save the grey of frost and concrete
And the chill upon the air.

Euphoric Euphorbia

poinsettia

Euphoric Euphorbia

Come the Twelfth Night and the tinsel comes down –
It’s time to de-decorate, if that’s a verb –
The fairy lights lodged in a box in the loft,
And the tree swiftly shunned to the kerb.
But we always leave the poinsettia,
She’s always the last to go –
We purge the urge to scourge the spurge,
As long as she’s on show.
For maybe a little of Christmas lives on
While her red and her green are in clover –
But after a week, so she’ll wither as well,
And that’s when the season is over.

Mistlemass

round white fruit
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Mistlemass

On winter days, in wood and dene,
I love to see your leaves of green,
And hang a sprig, a magic shoot,
And kiss beneath your poison fruit.
The glory of the mistletoe,
When perched aloft and laced with snow –
Your roots in wood, and never loam,
But on whose bough have you made home ?

This noble tree, of age and might,
Now after winter’s longest night,
Is verdant still, revered with awe,
As hope for yet the coming thaw.
So stands this tree in frozen earth,
Yet evergreen, to herald birth.
Its sap e’er rising through each limb,
A share of which our pest will skim.

And so the shrub upon the branch
Brings wine and feast to winter’s blanche.
Its prey brings strength, so won’t be killed –
Like rings of growth on which to build,
And spreads afar across the sea,
Till greater yet than e’er the tree –
For now our bush has such acclaim
It proudly bears a Latin name.

But lo, the mistle buds a shoot
That like its host has taken root,
With leaching tubers digging in,
A diff’rent plant, but of its kin.
This child shall conquer half the world
With winter blooms of gold unfurled –
And incense sweet their bouquets sow,
And berries bright with stellar glow.

And yet the saps of long ago
Within this parasite still flow
So little changed, it simply thieves
Then decks them out in diff’rent leaves.
So ev’ry living thing must fight
Against all predatory blight,
For even here, we see the grow
Of yet another mistletoe.

But this one’s hued in scarlet bright,
With fur and bristles dense and white –
And though as yet too small to see
Alone, without its parent tree,
So still its roots have bitten deep,
And spreads its seeds while yet we sleep –
In just one night, their airborne ride
Shall leave them by each mantel-side.

Kalanchoe

flaming katy 1

Kalanchoe

Last year I bought a flaming Katy
To mark a change from mistletoe –
As red as holly, green as ivy,
As pretty as any on show.
With buds like baubles till they burst,
For long after the thirty-first.

This year I still have that Katy –
Bulletproof, she just goes on,
Though all the year her stem has bolted,
And her blooms are long long gone,
She’s clearly no perpetual rose,
But then, that’s just the way she grows.

She was so pretty once, my Katy,
As a hothouse cultivar –
But she escaped to be a tree
Who’s reaching for the Christmas star
She’s tall and ragged, but it’s daft –
I feel I can’t deny such graft.

Last year I bought a flaming Katy
Who I water faithfully,
Yet she and I, we both us know
She’ll never bloom again for me.
Some plants we keep not just for show,
I guess that’s just the way we grow.

flaming katy 2

Cyclamens

mauve in brown
Old Friends by Milos Golubovic

Cyclamens

In the Summer’s heat I bought ’em,
And they barely raised a leaf –
But here in the depths of Autumn
As the roses come to grief,
And while the first of frost is looming,
With the pumpkins come and gone,
So now the cyclamens are blooming
Just as though the sun still shone.

The Root of All Evil

wood street plane
Photo of the London plane tree in Wood Street in the Square Mile (taken by Katie Wignall ?)

The Root of All Evil

“Since it was first hybridised in the 1660s, the London Plane has taken over the world.”
                                                                                                                 – The Manchester Gardener

Hybrid sap, mosaic bark,
Twisted bloom and swollen seed,
Bright amid the sooty dark,
This gnarlèd gothic breed.
He sprouts so slyly, this plant in the greenery –
One of the forest and part of the scenery –
No felling him, this mimic of maple, primordial cousin:
Hack off a limb, and this pollarding hydra will shoot out a dozen.

Spawned in the blooms of his immigrant parents,
A cuckoo inherent, a mongrel ill-born.
Wrought in the heart of Enlightenment steam,
From a fever-soaked dream on a dew-sodden morn.
With roots in the clay and his head in Orion,
A vigorous scion, a devil-blest spawn,
A chance aberration, a found’ry mutation,
With lacewood of iron and baubles of thorn.

Invading our cities while shedding his skin,
This cryptic chimera has crept his way in.
And none of his caste have succumbed to senescence, as yet…
Elixir of ever-youth pumps his capillary,
Sweeter than gin from an alley distillery,
Alchemised out of pea-soupers and coal-dust and sweat.
As if he were built out of ratchets and springs,
His ethic for work will be written in rings –
He’s still in his galvanised prime, through the dry-times and wet.

What hath we wrought ?, and what hath we mined ?,
That ought to lie buried or trampled behind –
But workshops of soil are shooting out hordes of his kind.
And what if we find that he just keeps on growing ?,
And fruiting and sowing, till all is entwined ?
Hammered and forged in the mill and pipette –
Who knows how engorged this goliath may get ?

The Sisters McBloom

Photo by Elle Hughes on Pexels.com

The Sisters McBloom

The first to blossom was Daisy,
Yet still a rather homely lass –
Though pretty in a common way,
She spent all year within the grass

The next to blossom was Iris,
Bursting out in the warming Spring –
Showy, delicate, desirous,
Over quickly – just a fling.

The next to blossom was Poppy,
A gothic girl in crimson red –
A heady mix of sharp and soppy,
Fascinated by the dead.

The next to blossom was Rosie,
A redhead maid with cheeks of pink –
Nothing about her was boring or prosy,
And lasting longer than you’d think.

The next to blossom was Heather,
Just as the leaves were starting to turn –
Sturdy and tough, whatever the weather,
And hiding a heart just waiting to burn.

The last to blossom was Ivy,
Much maligned, but on the climb –
Her bauble buds were small though lively,
Coming of age at Christmastime.