I turn into the garden freshened by morning rain
Inhale a damp, earthy smell.
Photographer with tripod blocks the path to the right.
I go left
Discover old chap rooting out last year’s rot and freshly sprouted weeds.
Usual suspects
Dandelions. Burdock. Stink grass.
His brow beads heavily with sweat.
He grunts as he flicks a dog turd at an unsuspecting pooch.
Casts an admonishing glance at the owner. I move on.
Bees are buzzing
Hovering over intoxicating purple spring wonders
Crocuses, flowering plants of the iris family
I take the mandatory picture
Of all things purple.
For a friend, Mary(notcontrary)
Noting to send later.
I shuffle to where a crowd has gathered
Watching a painter
Capture with deft brush strokes
What they too will grab with the swift
Push of a cell phone button.
Tai Chi is in full swing too.
Quiet movements of fluidity…
A child points in the direction of the garden cafe
Screams bloody blue murder
I want ice cream. Chocolate.
Not Neopolitan! Puts his foot down hard, grinding it in the gravel.
Kicks a stone into touch but is
Ignored by his parents who
Search for a particular shade of red rose not yet bloomed.
Or perhaps a way out?
I find a quiet place to meditate
Let the next lot of garden lovers
Have the path to themselves.
Free to observe
What I may have missed.
Congratulations on the poem. Words as painting. A lovely evocation of pictures in a garden.
Julian Mulock, artist and illustrator, reacts to the poem.
