Rhetorically I wish the warm
Stoke rain
would wash away the grey gloom,
allotments included.
The greenfly and other impertinents unexempted.
Minor disruptions apart will bring out our stoicisn,
gushing from the backwaters
we feared we had become,
raking in a new terrain.

Oh little bud upon the bush
Give one more push!
And poke your salmon coloured nose
Through the green cap that grows
To keep you warm and dry.
It holds you tight
And lets you see the light
You need to help you grow.

Don't touch this bud!
Just let it be and let it grow just so
No peeling back the sheath
To see its colours. No forcing heat, no elongated day
Or shortened night.
Just let the thing unfold.
It is itself.
It is not yours or mine.
It is its own.

If it is red we must not wish it pink
Or think that it is ours
To **** or pinch.

We can and must protect from harm
And shoo the greenfly.
We must keep it warm
In winter
Feed and water it.
But it
Is of itself.

And as it peeps
And shows its colour
We can 'Ooh!' and 'Aah!'
And love the thing it is.
And as it grows
And spreads its petals
We can look
But never touch its velvet softness
Less we leave a mark.

Left alone it reaches to the heavens
Opens
Drinks the sun and rain
And thrives.

Then in  its own time
When  the petals have reached out
To let the pollen dusted butterfly and bee take of their fill.
One by one, full ripe and satisfied the petals fall
And for awhile their beauty and their scent
Leaves soft remembrance.

Standing by the fridge
We could see the roses
In a flower bed
Beneath the kitchen window.

We took to tidying
The cupboard, together,
Where the contents had grown
Hard and dusty with time.

The roses were transplanted
From a London home
Finding leaving her garden sad
So carried them with her in a van.

We made pizzas for tea
Using a simple base recipe
Adding tomatoes and chives
Topped with grated cheese.

In the flower bed the three
Roses, fed, pruned and watered
Cleared of greenfly with soapy water
Flourished and bloomed in the sun.


Love Mary for her mother Grace Westbrook

Time is wonton soup,
And that tall boy you stole last night
Is still inside your trunk.

Cigarette smoke and sunscreen air
Perfume the burning grass.
When all is placed on greenfly's wing
He tumbles forward - brash.

Cool pursuit, and time lapse too,
Persist the stagnant air
Of summertime and sweet plum wine,
Cocoons, a golden snare.

Black lace ******* disarray
I want to know your plans,
From shallow noon till dusty dusk
With warm and calloused hands.

Crinkled leaves tell a tale
Of attack of aphid bug
As their honeydew leads a trail
Of ants to feed upon their drug

The curled foliage a dilemma
the quandary of a bind
presents itself as their gemma
is ravished 'n slowly mined

as all their sap, their life juices,
feed blackfly while unaware
of their damage and abuses
'midst symbiotic love-affair

Now do i quash the bugs whilst feeding
squash 'em 'twixt my thumb 'n finger
stop the pests from further breeding
or do i let them live and linger

Why should i have more ruth 'n mercy
on the senseless vegetation
are the greenfly more unworthy
that i be cause of their cessation

Why should I be a feared colleague
of grim-reaper in his quest
my act proclaim i am in league
with unwelcome saturnine guest?

Suitcase with grief
Credible April rains
Spring so near
yet so far away.
With the greenfly and spider over my coat
Looking for lasting relations
Could have been a hero
But I've lost my place
Right or wrong.
If I had only known Elvis Presley