My misgivings hide among the shadows,
In the tangle of long grass along the hedgerow
Between your wide open fields and my cultivated lawn.
Unspoken truths crowd out the spring bulbs,
Now snarled with weeds and thorned with blackberry,
The cobbled pathway which once linked my hope with your promise.
Will you meet me at the gate by the old sycamore tree?
If yes, then bring your dreams, untethered, and the dappled autumn sunshine,
I will bring my careful notions and the soft spring rain.
Prim roses and wild lilac; a velvet ash and sweet chestnuts,
Your gypsy summer, my redbud winter,
Our season, one garden.
‘Nothing is all bad. There are very beautiful flowers in the desert amidst the spikes and thorns. Just don't let them take over. In the garden of love there is little room for prickly things.'
- Kate McGahan
Velvet shoots poke out of soil,
Nurtured growth stalls.
a short reprieve
as time would tell
but for that moment
as winter yielded to rest
Ballaarat had turned on a day
no more did grey rain
slice savagely side-wards
shot from Antarctica's ice-fields
separating ribs from shivering flesh
leaving futile dreams of an early spring
this day was good
leaves barely rustled
occasional gusts stirred
caught in silent murmurings
as bulbs reached up with impish smile
this old gold-rush town in mid-Victoria, Australia, is built on a windy plateau, and though gracious in its traditional beauty, is known for relentless winds most of the year... a fine day is celebrated!
The stars are so beautiful,
Wish I could catch some
And make them
My light bulbs.
Incandescent light bulbs,
when they share their love,
it tends to light up a room.
As for pieces of broken mirrors,
they're really just smaller new ones
awash with life experience.
So, when you told me
that you were broken
I begged to differ.
The difference between
a broken lightbulb
and a dead one
is simply shattered glass,
and the difference between
a broken mirror
and a dead one
is the person looking in it.
you may be broken,
but without you
I have no light,
and mirrors are useless
in the dark.
The nightingale gives way
to the ruddy dawn and foam blooms
overhead among the early watercolour
I hear a blue-*** (or robin) whistling it's tune
through the bulbs which rise bouncing
from the rippling sea of soil,
growing in seamless swathes beneath
the leaves silken pink.
The sun dapples through, reflecting
a rosy hue into the glass
dew drops fast melting
into the thirsty earth, and peeps
over the treetops before
gradually bowing his glinting head.
Old daffodils turn russet
in the golden day
as the clouds blush.
Another one of the first poems I have written. I just love spring!
— The End —