The Hand Not Bitten
Is any insect brave enough
To pollinate the venus-flower,
Tempted never by the lure
Of nectar, rich upon the leaves ?
Is any insect sure enough
To find that small white-petalled tower
Standing tall above those mauls
That punish tardy, wayward thieves ?
Is any insect smart enough
To find the pollen in the bower,
And to fly away again
And not be caged within those sheathes ?
Purple in May
Throat-wort over here and five-tongue over there,
Clinging to the brickwork,
When other weeds won’t dare.
Any scrap of dirt will do,
Waiting till the bulbs are through –
And suddenly, they’re ev’rywhere,
Ready with their reddy-blue.
Butterflies this side, bumblebees the other,
Ferrying the love-notes,
Each bloom to its lover.
And then the scatter-seeds will blow,
And where they land, so there they grow,
As next Spring will uncover,
By sprouting mauve and indigo.
Throat-wort is an old name for campanula (aka bellflower, but I always think of bellflowers as larger and grander). Five-tongue is a literal translation of Pentaglottis, the genus name of green alkanet. The truth is, I needed two-syllable names for both of them.
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
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
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
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
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
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
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.
Balding Trees
The leaves all grow each spring
And the leaves all fall each autumn,
But there’s some leaves firmly cling
While the rest – the ground has caught ’em.
I think the final leaves outstanding
Wait till last, to clinch a nice soft landing.
