Long Secateurs Poems

"The Hidden Garden in My Winter Forest"



First you must find the steps
Covered in wet moss, fog and cobwebs
It’s not easy to find, 
the Hidden Garden in My Winter Forest
Traverse the path to the gate at...

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as if Monet had planted water lilies in Babylon

          hanging gardens at the heart of a canvas of joy

       ...

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The once magnificent garden had become a paradise of weeds towering high

Ragwort and dandelion shedding their seeds took over the lonely asylum

Rakes shears shovels and secateurs rested where Tim had left them to dwell

Mocking and...

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the bridge he needed to cross was overgrown with tangled thicket’s brush

ragwort and giant hogweed littered the pernicious path to his own progress 

of perspectives and the slow death from stagnation and frightening delusions 

he...

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The Wicker baskets

Rooster crackled, fresh new day!
Sun arose planting gentle kiss
on the Earth's fore-head....
A cottage in the woods stood elegant
Lilted the cool breeze outside so pleasant!
Woke her child this mother, filled with zest
A long embroidered...

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Finally, she could get down on her knees again, not in prayer but to touch rosemary and lavender which had begun to send its fragrance into the spring and rising warmth in nature’s heart. There...

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As the days shorten and skies darken
Greenwich meantime feels like a lean time.
With a heavier coat I go out scarfed,
my hat pulled down, to find those last leaves
compact in corners and crevices.

With whitening fingers gloved...

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singing, entrancing
the winding stream cleaves the high valley
grey mist consoles silent sentinels
of a remnant sylvan ribbon
midwinter dawn excites the sleeping wild rose
all is whiteness and the frost is on the slopes
the naked orchard anticipates
the saw...

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(a turtle creation story)

Turtle flexed his jaws
as hard as secateurs.
Monkey-See saw
flew up the slippery trees
mimicking
the snapping sound
above the mealy ground.

It was the first Saturday night
and most of the good things,
and most of the mischief
had been...

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Half a Century

Fifty is not old if you are a tree and the oak tree holds acorns
already planted in waiting for the wheel of life to continue in
sentient beings on time weathered paths one step...

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a thorn pricked her skin so venom oozed out

she laughed it off with one almighty shout

lanced the huge boil and proceeded to reap

ignored sharp pain though the bandage did seep


blessings arrive in all kinds of...

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A THORN AMONG ROSES

I tell my blooms I’ll protect them
And see they meet no harm.
So, if you come near with your secateurs,
I’ll scratch you on the arm.

But the blooms all say I’ve got it wrong;
You...

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