Category: Plants

Brackicide

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bracken

Brackicide

(In reply to the Weeds Act [1959])

Bracken fronds have grown in Britain since the Ice Age quit the field,
But suddenly the Government has said that bracken has to yield –
And ragwort too, and certain thistles, though they’re natives to a leaf,
Are now declared as stateless species by the gardener-in-chief.
Buddleia, bamboo and Spanish bluebells get to spread their reign,
While good-old British dock is in the dock, as though it grew cocaine.
There’s plenty caterpillars eating all the native weeds that creep,
But legislators only care for what can feed our cows and sheep.
So throw them off the grouse moors, sweep them into gutters, dumps and ditches –
Can’t have plebby natives on our fairways or our cricket pitches.
Hack the forests down to make our rolling plains of pastures green,
Then wonder why these woodland plants are growing where the trees had been.

Schrödinger’s Cactus

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green cactus
Photo by Ravi Kant on Pexels.com

Schrödinger’s Cactus

My cactus sits in an earthen pot
All sullen and squat
By my garden gates.
I think it was here when I bought this plot,
It thinks who-knows-what
As it watches and waits.

It’s spiky and green,
And what else can be said ?
It waits to be seen
If it’s living or dead.

My cactus sits in an earthen pot
Where it does not-a-lot
For year on year.
It does not flower and it does not rot
In the cold and the hot,
In the rain and the clear.

It’s spiky and green,
And what else can be said ?
I bet it’s still seen
Long after I’m dead.

The First Bounce of Spring

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orange tulip field
Photo by Barbara webb on Pexels.com

The First Bounce of Spring

Who would have thought it, a glorious moment in March !
The sun arrives early to soften the lingering starch.
Our sensible shoes might be slackened, though hardly unlaced –
And coats are unbuttoned – but still being worn, just in case.
For this is, we know, but a splinter
In the long flank of Winter.

What should we call it – an Indian summer in March ?
The trees are caught napping, the indolent rowan and larch.
Our Febru’ry faces are cautiously risking a smile.
But still we shall carry umbrellas –  it’s only a trial !
For this is, we know, but a glinter
Before the blackthorn Winter.

The Memory of Woods

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tree with brunch and green leaves during sunset
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

The Memory of Woods

Ashes to ashes
And ashes to beeches,
Ashes wherever
The passing breeze reaches,
To scatter and nourish
The bluebells and oaks,
Whose branches are neighbours
And flowers are folks.

Ashes have grown
And ashes have fallen,
But not before raising
Their saplings from pollen –
We sleep with the ivy
And grow with the lime,
Whose roots are in mem’ry,
And crowns are in time.

Season’s Fleetings

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snowdrop christmas card

Season’s Fleetings

How can the Midwinter feast be here,
So far from the middle of Winter ?,
When Autumn’s leaves are barely down,
And frost has yet to hit the town ?
How can the shortest day be near
So far from the chill of Winter ?
We feast on pudding by the wedge
Before we’ve eaten up our veg.
But wait…the snowdrops soon appear
In what was once still Winter –
If Advent sees the last of Fall,
Then Burns Night sees the Springtime call.
The thaw before the freeze each year
Will warm and squeeze the Winter –
We’ve brandy butter on our snouts
Before we’ve eaten up our sprouts.

A Norse Discourse

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trafalgar

A Norse Discourse

What shall we get for London, Ingrid,
Now that the Yuletide’s near ?
What shall we get for London, Ingrid ?
We’re almost out of year.

What do they want in London, Ingmar,
The city that has it all ?
What do they need in London, Ingmar ?
Can’t we give them a call ?

We want it to be a surprise, dear Ingrid,
We want it to impress.
We want to surprise old London, Ingrid,
We don’t want them to guess.

What did we get them last year, Ingmar ?
What did we get them then ?
What did we think of last year, Ingmar,
And can’t we get that agen ?

Last year we gave them a pine-tree, Ingrid,
Last year we gave them a spruce.
They’re surely expecting a pine-tree, Ingrid,
We can’t this year, by deuce !

But surely they loved our pine-tree, Ingmar,
Surely they loved our spruce ?
And won’t they need a new tree, Ingmar ?
It only has one use !

It’s true, they loved our pine-tree, Ingrid,
It’s true they loved it there.
They proudly placed our pine-tree, Ingrid,
In Trafalgar Square.

Then let’s give a tree to London, Ingmar,
A symbol of our rebirth.
Then let’s give a tree to London, Ingmar:
From Oslo – peace on Earth !

It’s just such a shame how we go on to treat this gift each year…

Nicholmas Daisies

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focus photography of purple daisy flowers
Photo by Beata Kamińska on Pexels.com

Nicholmas Daisies

They seem to be lasting for longer each year,
So long past September and into December –
For even in frost and in sleet, they appear –
Still shining in bloom on the thermal frontier.

And I have seen violets outlast their season,
And snowdrops and hellebores turning up early doors.
I wonder if climate change offers a reason ?,
For something is urging these flowers and trees on.

The branches are bare, but the apples still mellow –
We’ve bred them so hardy, it just makes them tardy.
Surprises of colour make strange bedding-fellows,
With the roses still red as the crocus bursts yellow.

I’ve always found the habit of naming flowers after the saints on whose feast day they bloom to be a shaky tradition in Europe, when one considers our pot-luck temperate maritime climate. Will there be an overnight host of golden St John’s wort on the 24th of June every year ? With our climate, the closest you can come is within a month. And of course, Easter brings its own complications.

Last in Flower

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rose in snow

Last in Flower

Time to start the annual eyeing
Of the final blooms in bloom,
Before the Winter dying.
Which will be the final womb ?

Ivy, maybe, maybe daisy,
Roses far too slow and lazy
To be done and gone by now.
Asters equally as surly,
Gorse that’s late and jasmine early,
Petals braving frost somehow.

I guess they’re mainly cultivars,
These freaks who just won’t quit,
These suicidal stars –
All for our benefit.

But perhaps there’s evolution here,
With all the competition clear –
The last shall be the first.
Goldenrod and wintersweet
Are hanging on so long, they meet
The snowdrops when they burst.

Unnatural Selection

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pumpkin patch

Unnatural Selection

Pumpkin, oh plumpling, oh hideous mutant !
The hothouse of Hades is where you were born !
Nobody thinks of your yellow-starred flowers,
They only remember your potbellied spawn.

An fragile annual, a delicate diva,
Confined to the plots of the greenhouse and garden.
You won’t survive long in the wastelands and margins,
Where squirrels will eat you before you can harden.

Sclerosified skin in an orange-palled jaundice,
With five-fingered leaves and with deep, sucking roots,
And a hunger voracious to fatten grotesquely
Your thickly-pus’d tumours, your Frankenstein fruits.

So pump up the pumpkins, fatter and fatter,
You’re nothing but water and tasteless matter –
Your heads then trepanned to scoop out your cortex,
Yet still you’re invading our legends and doorsteps.

Yet many won’t make it – mistakes of blind nature,
All twisted or stunted, or rotting while still on the vine.
And if they’re not ripe by the first frost, they’re lost.
Oh Lord, what have we created ?  Oh monstrous design !