Monday, November 20, 2017

In The Garden


It’s cold sitting in the garden. The leaves
are scurrying at my feet in an uncertain wind,
while the cat crouches to one side, hunched
in a triangle of weak sunlight watching me.

I don’t intend to move. The leafless branches
of the old magnolia tree have not given up yet,
the lemon tree is ripe with fruit, the pumpkin vine
that has escaped the compost is flourishing.

I can’t feel my feet. It hasn’t rained in so long
the chilled dirt is hard, its flaky dryness crunchy
underfoot, the few patches of grass growing
are brown and thin and hardly even there.

I'm still as ice. From the house, where the fire is,
comes the clattering of crockery, laughter, snatches
of conversation warming the air. And a sighing,
as if the settling bricks were deepening their hold.

The air crackles. And the daphne bush displays
its blooms along the fence line in a spray of colour
and scent so thick I catch my breath. Two rosellas
chatter in the empty branches above my head.

It is the change in the day. The last of the sun fades
behind the neighbour’s house. The cat goes inside.
They're calling me in for dinner, but I go on sitting
in the gathering dusk ignoring them.

I'm not cold enough yet.



22 July 2017

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