Irene Toh at Red Wolf Poems is asking for poems about gardens. Here’s a three-year-old poem about the days when we had a proper garden:
The Cream of the garden
The bank, left wild for birds, insects,
and January primroses,
before violets, bluebells, nettles,
cow parsley and foxgloves.
The hedge, murdered every few years
for winter logs and kindling – a motley thing
of alder, hazel, chestnut, ash,
wild cherry and baby hedgerow oaks;
there’s a hollow stump sprouting hazel hair,
where a blackbird raises a brood in Spring,
becoming hideaway for summer children.
Its brambles give us jelly and crumbles,
sweetness from undergrowth.
Sweetness, too, behind the shed
where grass cuttings, weeds and waste,
moulder undisturbed into compost,
loved by vegetables, flowers, fruit, and me.
or this one
To All the Lazy People
You who can’t be bothered to dig up weeds,
who use noxious chemicals instead.
You whose gardens are tidy and sterile
because all the bees are dead.
Instead of working out in a gym,
work outside if you want to be fed.
Get fit to save your daily bread.