Hemlock, as shown in Medizinal-Pflanzen (Medicinal Plants) by Franz Köhler
One Plant’s Meat is Another Man’s Garden
Hemlock won’t kill us, Despite all its poison, (And not for the warnings that textbooks all parrot.) For why would we eat it, right there in the hedgerow ? It doesn’t look that much like parsley or carrot.
Since when do we sample the leaves and the berries Of any old weed in the wild ? How bizarre ! We buy all our veg from the market and grocer, Who hopefully know what the diff’rences are.
And meanwhile we cherish the monkshood and foxglove, And nurture their weapons without any fuss. But hey, there’s no danger admiring their flowers, For light cannot carry their toxins to us.
Buttercups, daffodils, rosemary, poppies, And holly and ivy, and conkers and yew. We’re much more at risk from a field of grain – From the carbs that we bake, or the booze that we brew.
Animals know well to leave them alone, Whether ragwort to nightshade – just ask any herder. And humans will likewise spit bitterness out – So we won’t die of hemlock…unless it is murder !
Forests gone Stop Trees no more Stop From Formosa down to Singapore They hacked them down Stop Shore to shore Stop Felled them for the precious sap they bore
Send a message Round the globe To spare the trees that let your message probe Stop Send a message In good faith To spare the trees that keep your message safe Stop Send a message To the top Or else some day all messages must Stop
Perished rubber Turns to brittle Gutta-percha won’t degrade a little Latex stretches So does leather Gutta-percha keeps its form forever
Send a message Through the gloam To spare the trees that bring your message home Stop Send a message Dit by dah To spare the trees that speed your message far Stop Send a message Spare the crop Or else some day all messages must Stop
New to the village then, hey ? Ah, the cottage of old man Beck. All that garden in the way ! Well, good luck keeping that in check…
Tell you what, let’s take a gander, Milk and two spoons, lovely, cheers. Of course, it used to be much grander – But gone to seed for donkey’s years.
These flowers like potatoes… Nightshade ? No, it’s bittersweet. Oh, don’t look so relieved mate – Those are just as deadly if you eat.
What’s that, you hope to keep some bees ? I really wouldn’t, were I you – Cos when they pollinate all these, It turns their honey deadly too !
Now here’s a fine old holly tree, Though he could do with quite a trim. Yes, he’s a he – a male, you see, You’ll get no berries out of him !
Your buddleia is running free, In crumbled mortar, rotten sills, And, yes, between your slates, I see. Pretty flowers, massive bills !
And stonecrop on your gable-end – Hanging mid-air, what a champ ! But best to hoick it out, my friend, For room for roots is room for damp.
I see you’ve last year’s veg galore, All overgrown and moulted. Too late to shut the greenhouse door, Your cabbages have bolted.
Your bindweed bullies ev’rywhere, Insinuating strangling strands While its triumphal trumpets blare – A cheeky chap with wand’ring hands.
A shame about the knotweed, though, And ragwort too ! And bracken fronds, And ivy, nettles, thorny sloe, And duckweed choking off the ponds.
This hemlock – best not touch it, natch – All snowy-flowered, poison-flecked. Much like your giant hogweed patch With last year’s corpses still erect.
Your wild tobacco’s quite a hit, And morphine poppies look a treat – Oh don’t sweat guv, they’re quite legit – Though weed-out all your weed, toot-sweet !
And are those shrooms I see in spawn Between the death caps ’neath the trees ? And fairy rings across your lawn, And stinkhorns flavouring the breeze.
But say, your dandelions roar ! A joy, a golden-yellow sea, And ev’ry year, there’s more and more – Old Beck would brew the leaves for tea…
Speaking of which, is there more in the pot ? Well, can’t stand jawing round here all day. I’d say you’ve got one hell of a plot, To keep you busy for many a May.
1. Trees are nice and all, But I feel I’ve already seen ‘em – They’re big and fat and tall, With not a conker between ‘em. And they’re so brown, So endless brown, Except where the leaves have greened ‘em.
2. I’ve spied these trees before On the other side of the woods – They’re taunting me, I’m sure, With their secret brotherhoods. They move about at night, I swear – For how else did those trees get there ? But when I question them, they just ignore, And won’t give up the goods.
3. Poplar black and willow white, I think that I have got that right – But easy to confuse them, each, Like copper birch and silver beech.
A Blackthorn Easter falls in March, When Easter seems to come too soon – But when it’s April, then we see An Appleblossom Easter bloom – And when it’s late, we celebrate A Cherry Easter at its boom – When leafless boughs are full of flowers, Sprung from out of Winter’s tomb.
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.
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.
Knotweed, yes-weed, Garden-in-a-mess weed, Big-leaves, red veins, Sprinting down the old lanes. Upstart, groundswell, Settled-in all too well, Regrowth, nine-lives – Fattening the bee-hives.
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.
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.
Rhyming Couplets 