Category: Plants

Scorpion Grass

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forget-me-nots

Scorpion Grass

You gave me seeds to scatter
In the ground beneath my plum –
A lover’s gift for growing,
And for shooing Winter glum.
Just sow them and forget them,
And with any-colour thumb,
And these blue and tiny flowers
Sprout a little straggly scrum –
Yet year-on-year, these self-seed parts
Make up a spreading sum –
These almost-weeds, not worth the dig,
Are no chrysanthemum !
You gave me some forget-me-nots –
And later called me scum.
I’ve tried so hard to wipe the slate –
Yet ev’ry Spring, they come.

This poem was inspired by one by Dino Mahoney – I basically took his idea and added rhymes.

Cherry-Picking

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Photo by Taryn Elliott on Pexels.com

Cherry-Picking

Along Acacia Drive,
Through Elm Tree Road and Hollyside,
And into Laurel Lane and Willow Mews,
The civic cherries thrive –
An orchard only one-tree wide,
But threading through suburban avenues.

Before March has come,
I see the cherry plums are out,
Their branches full of flowers, keen to pop –
I never see the plums –
The pigeons scrump the lot, no doubt,
Before they even get the chance to drop.

And just as those ones fade,
The cherries-proper flush with pink,
A very English taste of oriental.
And yet, as they parade,
I’ve never seen them fruit, I think –
I guess that’s why they call them ornamental.

A burst of April snow,
Confetti for an Easter bride,
A blossoming before the leaves are built.
They really make a show –
They love to boast, all front and pride,
Pretending like they’re never gonna wilt…

Of course, ere April’s out,
They’re over for another year,
And all that’s left are unimpressive trees.
They are a Springtime shout,
Before the moans and tuts appear
To ask for dignified behaviour, please !

Which is a shame, I say,
For here beneath each semi’s eaves
They symbolise the middle-class at root –
For all their youthful play,
They settle down and spread their leaves
And sire such oddly neat and waxy fruit.

Blackfingers

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shallow photography of dried leaves
Photo by Alan Cabello on Pexels.com

Blackfingers

The plant you gave so lovingly
Is dying on my windowsill.
I swear it’s not a metaphor,
It’s just a drooping hellebore.
I tend the plant so lovingly,
And steadily it goes downhill.
I swear its thrips and fungal pus
Are meaningless in terms of us.
This poor maltreated gift you chose,
This sacrificial Lenten rose,
Is no barometer of woes
That gnarls and twists and guilts.
It’s just a plant in dying throes
That cannot blame or presuppose.
The only thing this flower shows
Is soil that’s poor in silts.
I swear our love still blooms and grows,
As surely as this other wilts.
Whatever the bards or historians say,
It’s not the pot-plant of Dorian Gray.

Moveable Feast

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cactus
Hatiora gaertneri by Peter Coxhead

Moveable Feast

My poor, befuddled Easter cactus –
Sometimes early, sometimes late,
But never can it bloom in practice
On the actual Easter date.
We set a day for April Fools,
We set a day to change our clocks
But Easter follows loony rules:
The first full-Moon from Equinox.

Early April’s worth a shout,
I reckon, for a stable day –
It’s warm enough for going out,
And far enough from busy May.
But all this shifty, ancient mess
With sense as empty as the tomb,
Is why my cactus cannot guess
The week in which to bloom.

Bashful Bulbs

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white petaled flower
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Bashful Bulbs

Snowdrops, pale and shy and still,
As if they’re afraid to face the bracing breeze.
Downcast propellers, silent in the chill,
So loathe to disturb the hush beneath the trees.
Always huddled together in their crowds
With the neck of a swan and the wimple of a nun;
Tensed to bare the worst from the clouds,
And wilting away in the first warmth of the sun.

The Second Week of January

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17095178280_513b4aa99b_k
A Sad Ending by Rasputina2

The Second Week of January

Christmas is done with,
The New Year is come,
The feasting is over,
The outlook is glum,
Our work is resumed
And the weather is cold,
So uproot the glitter
And out with the old.

They’re sprouting on pavements
And swarming on greens,
They loiter on verges
Like unruly teens,
They cluster round dustbins
And litter our lanes –
Straggly and soggy,
These sorry remains.

They served us so proudly
A fortnight ago,
They warmed up the winter
And gave us a glow.
But now they are cast out
With scant a goodbye –
Destitute, homeless,
And waiting to die.

The council is working
To round up the strays
And shred them to chippings
For Agas to blaze,
Or sit beneath see-saws,
Or borders to don.
By Twelve Night they’re coming,
By Burns Night, they’re gone.

The Green Tree Anthem

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tree-flag

The Green Tree Anthem

The People’s Trees are greenest green –
They’re marching forth since Halloween.
On chilly days and snowy nights,
They proudly bear their fairy lights.

So raise your verdant branches high,
And hoist your red star to the sky –
Though humbugs scoff and scrooges sneer,
We’ll keep the green tree growing here.

When Christmas time is ruinous,
With profiteers pursuing us,
Their simple charm bring us delight,
And help us through the silent night.

So raise our battered spirits high,
And help us keep our powder dry.
Let bankers curse and workers cheer –
We’ll keep the green tree glowing here.

Oh Tannenbaum, oh Tannenbaum,
For needlekind we’re pining.
Oh Tannenbaum, oh Tannenbaum,
We’ll keep the green tree shining.

Hallmark Horticulture

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bouquet

Hallmark Horticulture

        1.
Roses are red,
And violets are blue…
Except to a bee
Who can see in UV –
Who knew ?

        2.
Roses are red,
And violets are blue –
Or so it is said,
But I wonder if true ?
Perhaps in the future –
But for a while yet
Most roses are fuschia,
And violets are violet.

September Showers

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acorns

September Showers

Acorns crunch beneath my boots –
There’s far too many for the looting squirrels, howe’er keen.
Are these too green ?  Are these too brown ?
A breeze shakes down a hail of fruits –
I pick a fresh one up, and pop it from its birthing cup,
And wonder if an acorn dreams
Of pleated barks and soaring beams –
And what if ev’ry one of these took root ?
This lane would be athwart with trees !
Just think of how a trunk might shoot
From ev’ry acorn, where they lay:
At most an inch or two apart, I’d say –
How long before their saplings start
To touch, and merge, from verge to verge,
Until a hedge of oak will choke
This ancient right of way ?
But if I take one home with me,
Perhaps that wall will bare a gap
Where flows no sap and grows no tree –
But as I turn to leave, I see
Another drizzle fill the lane,
And when I try to find my spot
I cannot – all is acorns once again.