My Hidden Garden

Those shutters that restrain
winter's icy blasts from penetrating
our snug home are our
Winter Garden, ablaze with
coloured glass fashioned
into bright floral display.
They remind us that snow
banked high behind those
shutters will in time depart.
Open wide in summer, the
window overlooking the garden
is the portal that admits our eyes
to the perfection of nature's
summer benevolence.

The Alchemy of Mood

We're a team, together making
the day work to our mutual advantage.
And it is a lovely day, Thanksgiving,
no less, for which we give thanks
to nature and good fortune for the
warmth of the sun despite cool fall,
for the bright and breezy day
championing garden clean-up
and feeling good about life.  For
the sounds of birds winging south,
me snug as he is, both sweatered
against the chill, he waiting patiently
while I cut back perennials and
harvest tomatoes for the table, bulbs
to overwinter indoors, anticipating
spring.  In the house he resorts to a
frenzy of inhaling the aroma of
roasting turkey, the spiced fragrance
of a pumpkin pie steaming fresh
from the oven.  This, a day of small
tasks of tradition, large heaps of
pleasure, leisure and companionship.
Thanks for being there, little fellow.

Wind Rules The Landscape

Wind ruled the landscape
conspiring with rain to
dispel the fog hanging like
dingy laundry over the landscape,
washing it off the lens of the day,
leaving wisp vapours to rise
lazily from woodland streams
as the sky's mantle turned from
furious dark purples of nature\s
apoplectic tizzies to a study
in resistance as the wind
hurried and harried the clouds
in favour of blue and gold.
The sun's brilliant orb drying
the cleansed atmosphere to reveal
a vibrant kaleidoscope of
light-shimmering colour;
 autumn leaves turning and twisting
on their loosed stems, then finally
spiralling free in a confetti
rainfall of descending foliage
as the wind barraged the forest
canopy, vacating its screen.

Heirloom

It is an exquisitely small
object, a silver, five-pointed
star set with brilliant marcasites
hanging on a fine silver chain.
She had coveted the ornament
as a child, persuading her
grandmother, who had it as
a gift from the girl's grandfather
when they were younger than
the granddaughter is now, to 
bequest it to her eager ownership.
It sits, forlorn, the silver star,
a treasured object in a
small jewel box, but not forgotten.
The girl cherishes her "shining
silver star", pensively regarding
it, wishing the world were a
vastly different place, where
someone like her could wear a
valued memento without fear
of spurning betrayal.

Fall's Peaceable Kingdom

Like sheep peacefully meandering
in a great blue pasture, the 
vast vault of the sky is crowded
with a host of scalloped, fluffed
herds of white clouds nibbling
the surrounding blue.  In this
peaceable kingdom, the 
benevolent lion of a sun reclines
in its lair beaming warmth and
content over the complacent world;
not even a hint of a solar wind to
impinge on the insular silence,
roaring below the discontent of
an agitated sovereign, king of all
it surveys; that scenario is best left
to the oncoming winter equinox.

Gone, Unforgotten

Nothing transforms the face of
an elderly person so much as the
sight of a small dog in the loving
care of its devoted person, knowing
the little creature's distress at
separation, taking it along everywhere
to allay its fears and loneliness.
Faces which age and gravity have
set firmly into stern grimness
light with the pleasure of observing
bright eyes, floppy ears and a
curious, moist snout.  Forgotten,
the burden of elder concerns as their
eyes devour the small animal's
presence and from their suddenly
garrulous lips spills memories
of their own small, furred companions,
long gone, but unforgotten.

Pentameter, Rhyme and Metre

Robert Browning, with his
archaic verse exalting language,
attachments and memory for
literary posterity becomes the
class-puzzling example, to be
studied, carefully parsed - and
class - emulate his poetic method.

An impossible, head-banging
assignment, but through her
despair comes the plot: a stone-hewn
castle, large, brooding, darkly impressive,
but outside, oh outside, its grounds
green and fresh and burgeoning with
aromatic shrubs, glorious floral displays,
trees in fruit, so beloved of birds.

Within the dark confines of a
chamber overlooking the splendid
garden, an old man sits, lost in
memory.  Each day he calls for the
gardener to report on the hale
beauty of the garden below, his
very especial treasured memory.

As motes of stardust dance in the
light that the disk of the afternoon sun
beams through the dusky aura of
the chamber, the gardener mutely nods,
listening attentively while the blind
old man speak of his pleasure as
he looks down upon the garden.

It is his beloved wife's special
place, though in life she never
once saw it.  Her grieving, bereaved
husband had it created to reflect
the plants and flowers she most
loved, and now her bright, pure
spirit wanders the garden, by day
and by night, viewed from above.

She speaks to her husband of the
changes she would like and he
duly informs the silently nodding
gardener.  Each day this drama
plays out till the old man lapses
finally into silence, turns his
sightless eyes again to the window.

The gardener departs, for he has
much to do.  He too recalls his
mother's love of flowers.  Gazing
through the humble cottage door,
he knows no garden exists.  His
father daily stirs the dregs of
haunting memory that never was.

Write that in rhyme, she sighs, where
to begin?  How to express the beauty
and the melancholy of it all, the nature
of nature that brings love, devotion and
flowers to humankind, then impulsively,
uncaring, makes it all vanish, removing
the beauty and the familiar comfort,
leaving us to recall in dour solitude?