Budding fiddle head ferns
unfurl their euphony as I consider
the impossibility of going anywhere
on a penny farthing or a bone shaker.
A cluster of ducks bark at each other
and delight in badgering the black cat
who sneaks off in disgust and hides
behind the Pig nose pippin.
In the glass house Aeonium Zwartkop
stand in rows of polished soldiers
and a bumble bee bumps into
unexpected lengths of solid space.
I dip into Shire worn cobbles
and linger in the half light of the
Grecian pillared stable and drink in
the smell of leather, horse and hay.
In the kitchen the ghost of flour
settles amongst the gargantuan
fish pans. Their cooper sheen as
bright as the setting sun in water.
Half remembered days of summer
linger with ranks of preserved
blackberries, plums, peaches, pears
raspberry jam and pickled onions.
I am drawn back to the garden
where I breathe deeply and imagine
red lustre of apple which is just a shadow
of a maybe in this uncorrupted blossom.
ooh ooh – I have quite a few photographs of the things you have included – funny how when you know the background to something it all slots into place so easily and when you read a poem and you are blind it can be a struggle and for lazy readers like me too much of a struggle – I like the way you have written from your own perspective Diana and not pretended to be somebody else – we all see things differently and spot different things – so it is nice to share