To escape from thoughts of love,
I put on my fur-cloak,
And ran out from the lamp-lit silent house
On a tiny footpath
The bright moon peeps;
And the withered twigs on the snow-clad earth
Across and across, everywhere scrawl ‘Love’.
Ping-Hsin, 1943
We have choir stalls in our garden
with jasmine curvilinear traceries and
wooden trusses for reliable support
when force is placed on them to keep
the roof of the sky in place.
The vault of eucalyptus is midday shade
and moonlit glisten with its
discontinuous ridge rib and one central
support to the natural intricacies in
cloisters of hawthorn.
Priceless treasures drift above and below
the ground; wisteria, honeysuckle, clematis,
ashes, bulbs, seeds, leaves, ladybirds, bees, insects,
hoverflies, bumbles, butterflies and Ria’s sleeping imp.
Soon the buddleia spires and stinging nettle
will welcome Red Admirals to your Rose Window:
to Blue Moon, The Pilgrim, The Generous Gardener,
Simply the Best, The Fighting Temeraire,
Compassion, Dark Secret, Dublin Bay,
Paul’s Scarlet, Harlequin, Super Fairy and Dogrose.
No palm leaves, but strewn-blown rose petals
tread a carpet to gate or swing,
like the child in The Selfish Giant’s garden,
or like aisle to altar in this
Cathedral of a Garden, where blackbirds live.
The Minsteryard is store for wheelbarrow, sheds,
tools, pots, seedlings, hosepipe, stones and fountain,
where next door’s frog can visit.