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as if Monet had planted water lilies in Babylon

          hanging gardens at the heart of a canvas of joy

                    hiding despair at Speaker’s corner in Hyde Park

debating journeys and destinations like Epicure

a silent whisper reaches my midnight blue soul

‘trust me’ she chants ‘I am Gaia all will be good’

                               Versailles meets the red poppies of Flanders

                    Cosmos flowers reach out from the trenches

          Honeysuckle creeps up a window of change

thistles engulf a few stray hawthorn branches


Klimt kisses Munch’s scream in consolation

Vermeer lost an earring in wild undergrowth


I paint in my mind over disbelief and mistrust

          gather seeds and offshoots running away

                    shelter an acorn on its way to an oak tree

                              replace a worn noose with a stepladder

a trowel hung from a rusty nail in my derelict shed

wheels had come off the barrow and refused to spin

                             I removed my torn gloves and brushed over fears

                    ignored blisters of hardship and touched the soil

          sought blessing and gratitude from a kind nature

as a silver moon watched and I lost all track of time

lavender fragrance mingles with cinnamon bark

          nettles attract butterflies that feast on its scent

                    earthworms turn over compost for a fresh start

                               heaps of old logs give harbour to bumbling bees

once imprisoned in a colony of rattling snakes

with only rotten apples to nourish my charcoal pain

hornets building their nest on wood worm and sorrow

dried ink in my pen refused to see the beauty of change


stung into living by polychrome complexion

          with each weed requiring an hour of courage

                    fertilized by resilience of coarsely ground bone

                             it was the garden that saved me from passing on

callus meta morphed into palm trees and life lines

          scars healed over time with a pitch fork’s guidance

                    a water trough filled cheered on by receding drought

                              oiled secateurs pruned aberrant twiglets and roots


today I walk barefoot on what promises nurture

cherish my meadow and discover my own ground

share a vegetable patch with ladybirds and snails

and refuse to be the corpse I was destined to be



12 June 2020
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