I choose to write about the things that I see in my garden
Everyday there is something to fascinate me there.
So I write but as I do I am aware
That not all is wonderful always.
If things that I see are not as wonderful
to those with whom I might share my observations
then regret for writing stuff and nonsense creeps
into the joy of recording the happening, day to day.
I put down my pen and walk out to wander.
To stand by the spreading daffodils and picture Wordsworth’s hills.
To hear in memory my Mother’s voice loving her “daffs”, in a voice full of sweetness
that reaches me deep, as it contrasts her usual harsh and bitter tones.
The daffodils are treasure, brings my mood as bright as their blossoms.
I move on past the pansies crushed into their bowl,
and praise their lovely faces, raised to morning sun
even in that crowded dish, and promise to give them
a more spacious home when the time is right for planting.
And finally the tulip buds, all two that the deer have left me,
which are peeking a glimpse of scarlet, and at this moment
are visited by a persistent, circling white butterfly.
I leave the flowers and cross the grass, surprise a rabbit as I go,
and stand among the trees, still mostly bare, showing age, in need of pruning.
I feel their patient energy, and find the answer to my doubt.
The writing is a way to make the magic that I see a lasting thing,
for I must slow the picture while I make the words.
And it weaves a permanence rather than a spark
that leaps like the rabbit in the grass
and then disappears amid the other
duty-based chaotic thoughts that are trying to take over.
A Thorley Poet 