Suburban woods are managed affairs, They’re planted, pruned and pinked by blades – Such golden Autumns, verdant Junes, And endless Sunday afternoons. They’re so unlike the home of hares, These avenues and picnic glades – With squirrels a-dozen, and walkies-dogs, And no dead-heads or fallen logs.
Suburban woods are manages affairs, Of spotless clearings, sculpted shade – Each sparkled Winter, bluebelled Spring, And countless nightingales to sing. They’re so unlike the nettled lairs, These natures tamed and human-made – So banish the gnats and moles and crows To bark-brown field where anarchy grows.
Along the canal, they are hugging the banks, To be keeping well-out of the slow shipping-lane, With their gear-stick flower-buds breaking the surface – Tightly wound and so yellow-with-purpose. They open like eye-stalks on periscopes-shanks While their landing-pad leaf-pods are drumming with rain – And their previous blossoms are brewing-up brandy For drawing in bees like a backwater dandy.
Cookmaid with Still Life of Vegetables & Fruit by Nathaniel Bacon
The Vegetable Plot
Betty Fry loves butterflies, But hates the Brussels sprout. She helps her grandad with his plot, And tends the veggies for the pot. She picks the beans when of a size, And pours the can to ease the drought, She pulls the slugs off lettuce heads, And wheedles weeds from out the beds. Now Grandad Fry can grow a prize In marrows, long and stout – But most of all his garden’s fare Are brassicas, to grin and bear.
Betty Fry loves butterflies, And that’s why she helps out – She sees them flutter round the plot, And wishes she could name the lot. But there is one to which she’s wise, There’s one for which she’s on the scout And where its caterpillars tread, She leaves them be and sees them fed For they shall be her silent spies To bring an end to sauerkraut, The scourge of Brussels ev’rywhere – Her Cabbage Whites shall shred them bare !
She worked for the council, she mending their greens, And their roundabout gardens and motorway screens. She weeded their paths and she tended their sprays, And swept up their cherries’ displays.
Her hedges were sprinkled in sloe-blossom white As I asked if her lanes were a primrose delight. She plucked me a buttercup, proffered with thanks – As dog-violets guarded her banks.
We kissed to the hum of the first of the bees, As the belfries of bluebells all chimed in the breeze – And daffodils trumpeted Springtime unfurled, As fiddleheads flexed and uncurled.
The teeth of the lions were under our thighs, And they ev’rywhere shone from forget-me-not skies. We trampled their verges, enrapt and entwined – The daisies, though, seemed not to mind.
She showed me the places the tulips grew wild, Aloud and ablaze, then eleven months mild. Their flowering passion so vital, so brief – And ashwoods were not yet in leaf.
The lords and their ladies unwrapped their white cloaks, And the crockets were sprouting on beeches and oaks. Our lessons botanic were daily resumed – At least, till the mayflower bloomed.
My neighbour disliked her cherry laurel And asked to borrow my saw. She offered me all the wood for my fire In exchange for my muscle and jaw. And so we chopped and chatted all morning On what we joked was her ‘ranch’. She called it an invasive species As we tackled its largest branch – She certainly didn’t remember planting the thing, So out it went (Though she waited till all its blossom had dropped Which had lasted all through lent.) I’ve heard when burned it smells of cherries, But we scented almonds that day – She said, well that’s the cyanide, Remember, this laurel’s no bay. We made fair work of its lily-white wood Till we left its stump for bare, But we still got a slight furriness in our mouths, Despite our gloves and care. I offered her a seat by my fireside Watching her tree disappear, But she said I needed to season it first, So call her up in a year.
You gave me a bonsai, as a gift. I don’t know why… I surely hadn’t asked for it. Alas, its decline was swift, Was it too wet ? Was it too dry ? So here it sat, sentenced to die.
Others had stolen its height away, And spawned a lap-tree pet – To start a forest on a windowsill. My disrepair was on display – Alone, neglected – yet I swear I tried so hard to care and not to kill.
I know it wasn’t cheap to buy, And ev’ry loss of another tiny leaf Brought grief at failing you. As ancient as a samurai – And here was I, ungrateful thief, Who stole its life in a month or two.
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.
“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 mouldy 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.
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.
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.
