In Her Garden

 

Inca nuts (called sacha inchi) grow.

Leave them out in the sun long enough, 

she shows us, and the tough shells burst open 

all by themselves, to release the kernels. 

They’ll save your life in many ways,

she says. But roast before eating!

Also there are purple flowers

called Clitoria for their erotic shape. 

She lifts the blooms from their stems, 

drops them in warm water, which makes it blue, 

then adds a squirt of lemon juice into every glass

and it turns purple. The taste is delicate, sweet.

Her friend the kookaburra comes to her call,

sits on the veranda rail and grins at her I swear

with his big wide clacking beak. She coos at him 

and strokes and fluffs the feathers at the back of his neck.

Often, I know, she feeds him witchetty grubs

she finds for him, foraging down there in her garden.

I'm not doing the full April Poem A Day thing this year, because (a) my son and his partner came for a visit and (b) I got a bit unwell and had to spend a couple of days in hospital, and now am taking things quietly for the next little while. It was very fortuitous that family were here at the right time, to look after me and also after Poppi cat during my brief absence from home. (It was fluid on the lung following a slight head cold which I mistook for the tail end of my Summer allergies. The infection, slight as it was, put a strain on the old heart, and that in turn caused the fluid on the lung. All treated and medicated now and I will follow up with GP straight after Easter. Doctors at hospital are not too worried about me, and I know what symptoms should take me back to the hospital if they occur. So please don't be alarmed.)  Meanwhile, just before all this happened, I had a lovely day at my friend's, as described above, and I did have a look at the first April prompt at Poetic Asides, which was 'seed'.  So I began this poem, which got interrupted by the drama ... and finished it just now, days later. Maybe I'll do a few more poems this April, and maybe they'll be inspired by the prompts. We'll see. But I am definitely not going to attempt the usual frantic marathon!

Sharing with Poets and Storytellers United for Friday Writings #221 April Quotes.  No quotes here, but at least this took place in April – although only the date of posting tells you that.

At Lancia's Place

 

In my friend’s garden

there are always flowers

every time of year,

and birds at the feeding box

her husband built.

The years go on;

we are all getting older.

Looking out across her lawn

over the descending hill,

I’m grateful to still visit.

A Quadrille for dVerse, 44 words (minus title) which must include some form of ‘flower’: Quadrille  #241.

(Photos all taken in Lancia and Ern's garden; just a few of the many over the years.)

Arguing with the Nature Spirits [Revision]

Hey woman, hooray for you!

You’ve left us a nice bit of mini-jungle 

here within your small back yard. 

We do like to be left some suitably 

untouched, wild spaces – especially now 

when, all around us, foolish folk

allow the wilderness to diminish.

We fear it will all disappear too soon.

I understand that greed for wilderness.

Yet if I allow the weeds to continue

rising unchecked in rich proliferation, 

soon I’ll have the whole snake nation 

sunning here, nesting here, as the weather 

warms and draws them out from hibernation.

Oh no, we’ve seen you do it before: 

you’ll get that kid from over the road 

to come again, to prune and pare,

weed widely, crash through and slash 

all the tall stems and grasses, 

until at last – wanna bet? –

there’ll be nothing much left,

and some of us will be out on our arses.

It’ll be me out if I don’t please the landlord 

with some attempt at suburban order: 

a border here, a mown lawn there, while I grow

sweet European flowers to be weeded, watered, 

pruned and generally molly-coddled. I need 

to keep this rented roof over my old head.

We’re looking for good weedy plots with lots 

of room, lots of thick growth. Too much neatness 

makes us needy! So, OK, you rent; which means

appeasing your landlord’s conventional silliness. 

But must you till every small corner? Must you

cut and cultivate so fully, so tidily, so prettily, 

so politely? Why not leave us just one little bit?

What if we promise to chase away snakes?

[Earlier version.]

My Father Gave Me Gardens

My Father Gave Me Gardens

I see him squatting, fingers in the dirt, 

one hand holding a small trowel, 

paused to look up at me, smiling –

even in our unhappiest times,

with Wicked Stepmother / castrating wife,

when it became his escape.

But also when he was young 

and I was little, and Mum was 

up in the house cooking,

waving from the window,

and the sun shone

on our broad back yard….

He never got me to like

grubs and soil and sheer hard work,

but it’s due to my Dad that I love

hardy, bright red geraniums,

and wide round orange-yellow

calendula flowers we mis-called marigolds.

Because of him I know

that whether rhododendrons

bloom pink or blue depends

on acid or alkaline soil, 

that earthworms are essential,

pretty white cabbage moths a pest.

I learned the look and smell

of rosemary: small white flowers, 

dark green leaves. ‘Rosemary means 

remembrance’ he said (long before 

I encountered Ophelia). So I knew 

I was born gifted with memory.

I still know the long-ago taste

of tiny, fresh-picked strawberries.

I remember the hum of bees

thick around a bush in summer,

the feel of my bare feet on grass,

and what time of day to water.

Thanks to him, I don’t weed away 

dandelions, I cherish them; 

I relish the tangy scent

of the shrub I’m named for;

and every place I live, I grow

abundant red geraniums.

Written for Weekly Scribblings #47: Meme Madness at Poets and Storytellers United. We're invited to write about things we learned to love through loving someone else who loved them.