Saturday, August 29, 2015

It Rained. It Poured.

                                   It rained. Really rained. At last. After waiting all summer.
                              After being teased with a shower once. It rained with hail.
                                                  And wind. And the seas churned.
                                  (Everyone Singing by Siegfried Sassoon 1886-1967)
                                       "Everyone burst out singing:
                                           And I was filled with such delight
                                              As prisoned birds must find in freedom,
                                              Winging wildly across the white
                                             Orchards and dark green fields; on and on and out of sight.
                                             Everyone's voice was suddenly lifted,
                                             And beauty came like the settling sun.
                                                My heart was shaken.
                                              With tears.
                                             And horror drifted away.
                                               O but everyone
                                              was a bird;
                                           and the song was wordless;
                                              the singing......
                                          will never be done."
                    SIEGFRIED SASSOON: Decorated WW1  soldier, write, poet from the UK. He was deeply affected by what he saw during the war and wrote  about the conduct of war. In 1919 he because literary editor of the Daily Herald. He wrote "Memoirs of an Infantry Officer" and "Sherston's Progress" amongst many more.  He was included in 1985 among 16 Great War Poets in Westminster Abbey's Poets Corner.

Thursday, August 27, 2015

Pots and Cats

                                                   It's time. To tackle the rest.
                            Sunflower heads. Beheaded a few weeks ago. Left for the birds.
                                               While Cordelia snoozes in late afternoon sun.
                                                 And Smokey paws at the door. Are you there?
                                              I am here. He says. Guarding the wall that gapes.
                                                        Are you there? He tries again.
                                                Today is the day. To tear apart  pots.
                          To keep some. Ivy geraniums. Lavender geraniums. Favourites.
                                            They have already started to look bedraggled.
                                    The heat of this summer. Warrants one small watermelon.
                                  Never grew  watermelon before. It sits in my fridge.
                                              And cats who know how to beat the heat.
                                                              Spencer in the greenhouse. Watching.
                                                  Bo on her ironing board. Watching.
                                       Tomatoe plants have been tossed. Leaving only kitchen sinks.
                         Once  overflowing benches boast only a few geraniums. Lots of dirt.
                                              And one Spencer.  Purring at the door.
                                       With the heat this summer everything is too far ahead.
                                                         I know it. The cats know it.
                                     Being watched by Patience. Way up high. Cordelia's house mate.
                                               Blue eyes. Deep in the shadows of what is left of the Innula.
                                                        Still cuddling Spencer. The neighbour's cat.
                                                My pots are sad.
                                                The cats are happy.
                                          Smokey dreams by the Moai in his patch of dry grass.
                                      Bunny yawns. Sleepy time. End of day. End of the pots.
                                              And the day is done. The pots are petrified.
                                                   And Spencer sleeps  in their dirt once again.

Sunday, August 23, 2015


                                       They're Gone.  Dead. Flopping forlornly in the heat of the day.
                                             They used to be sweet. Beautiful.
                                               Always comparing themselves to roses.
                                                Being admired  on cloudy days.
                                                 And on sunny days.
                                   Then the Rudbekia appeared. Tough as nails. Bright and sturdy.
                                               Once they  were stuffed into jars.
                                            While Spencer snored.
                                          Or sat on the fence under the grapes. He would sniff.
                                                       But now the garden's sagging.
                                                       Like compost bags overflowing with dead vines.
                                               Now, only Cordelia can compare herself to the sun.
                                              And nod off to sleep behind the fence.
                                                  And hide from Smokey. Who is such an imp.
                                                The roses are still beautiful.
                                      But the sweet peas sag and slop with aphids, bugs and torn stems.
                                                Last of the garden sunflowers sit on the gate.
                                                    Some pots survive. But their days are numbered.
                                              Only the Rhodochiton does well.  So much is gone.
                                          The pots will meet their maker . Soon.  But not yet.
                                                The Rudbekia laughs and laughs. It will be king now.
                                               The bag swallow up what is left. Like a big gaping maw.
                                               Ivy geraniums hold their own. But soon they will be gone.
                                               The last of the blooms strive to stay upright.
                                             But they too. Alas. Are gone. Trampled.
                                              Crumpled. Washed away. Gone.
                                         The last of the sweet peas beg to live. But it's too late.
                                             The garden is drying . Getting ready for fall.
                             And only the pods are left. Seeds to be gathered. Aliens. Gone.
                           Till next year. When once again sweet peas will live long. And prosper.