5:50 a.m. In dark just lighter than pitch, the dog and I venture out for his morning relief. The spilled streak of stars we call the Milky Way fades as I glance up, as though my eyes mop heavens’ mess. The dog lifts his leg and anoints the road sign pole and I hear the splash of contact. He kicks his hind legs, rubs his paws on the grass making sure every bit of his scent graces his small patch of turf. Continue reading
I never tire of a peachy sueded dawn,
the nap of clouds brushed back
to reveal the start of another
blue day. I never tire of a light jacket
and bare legs in these the dregs
I never tire of bean stalks crawling
up their twine canes, scarlet blooms
still blooming even though the bees
are long gone and the harvest past.
I never tire of begonias and impatiens
persistence beyond the autumn moon,
their flower heads spotlights among
ankle deep maple leaves jostling
in the unseasonably warm breeze.
Anorexic trees, limbs naked now,
remind me something is amiss
and sandals in the front hall
confirm this as do the mittens still
waiting for cold hands and the
down settled unfluffed in winter
parkas in the closet.
Outside the lilies revive and the
Rideau River flows unfrozen into the
ocean that rises in rebellion with
the blood of Arctic glaciers spilled
on our shores.
But I never tire of a peachy dawn
on my tropical island in the north.
“Mamaaa! Maaa-maaa! Maaaaa!” his thin, sharp cry carried through the screen door, sieved into mosquito sized pieces and scattered through twelve back yards. Deck doors clunked closed, but I was in my back garden listening to wind chimes, which I swear his sound waves agitated, and I wanted to be outside.
“Darius!” his mother yelled. “Stop whining! Do you hear anyone else behaving like you? Just stop!”
I went inside and closed the door. I could still hear the caterwauling. I wanted to invite them both over to listen to the chimes but I didn’t. Continue reading
Miraculously, the May-June-July monsoons did not prevent the cherries from ripening. Somehow they gleaned enough light and energy from the milky sun to turn into hundreds of juicy blisters ready to burst. They reddened within days and the annual race to pick and pit before the starlings and squirrels reaped the bounty was on. Continue reading
Even in rain
blooms lean to light
even in rain
sing sun an ovation
even in rain
even in rain.
The ferry door clanged shut. Harry stood on the bow and let the wind dry his eyes as the vessel pushed away from the dock. Everything solid disappeared behind a wall of steel. Ahead he saw water fortified by saw-toothed mountains on the horizon.
“Lady, why did we have to come so far?” Continue reading
July 13, 2015
Your petty putsch succeeded in exiling Harry and I where sending us to the gatehouse and 27 years of childish attempts to split us up did not, although the malicious introduction of Tulia came close. Yes, Harry finally confessed they met at the garden centre where you sent him for a non-existent species of earthworm for the vermi-beds. Well, brother-dear, you reap what you sow.
Harry squinted at the petunias Lady Smock had dropped on the patio table. He stood blinking like a forgotten turn signal, his serene mien disturbed by this flagrant floral bad judgement. Petunias at Smock Manor? What next – garden gnomes?
“Our war ensign, Harry. We’re going to plant them at the entrance to the estate. If dear, brother Bertram thinks I’m going to take exile to the Gatehouse without a fight, he’ll soon know the cut of my jib.” Continue reading
From the first sip of tea on the second date, he knew Lady Smock was a gift from the heavens, the way she blew on the rouged surface as though extinguishing a bolide. His mind wandered to a conjugal bed where sleeping would be an afterthought. Well, a man can dream, can’t he? He blamed it on the invitation to dine on sausage rolls on their first date. Who could resist a woman who ate rich sausages hidden in buttery pastry and didn’t fret about the calorie consequences?
“What do you know about amending acidic soil, Harry?” Lady Smock’s left eyebrow rose, following her voice into a question mark.
Harry knew squat about gardening. He hated getting his hands dirty, afterwards scraping his nails clean, scrubbing grime from his dried finger pads. Gardening was a penance. Yes, he loved flowers but that’s why florists exist. But he’d read – “Poultry droppings are just the ticket”, he replied, not knowing her hen-house needed a good mucking out.
They left together, discussing pH balance and the risks of gardening without gloves.
“Here’s your tea, luv.” The down-beat of “luv”, sotto voce, his dead foliage voice, was the catalyst.
Harry was a polyglot. He spoke the language of flowers, communing with them as he trimmed and transplanted. Each plant elicited a unique coo, and a song. Spring was Ode to Joy. Fall was Mozart’s Requiem Mass which he was humming as he placed the foxglove tea bedside.
The authority of reconstituted foxglove blooms revived Lady Smock. Her heart raced and she rose from bed, retrieved her gardening gloves and plunged them into soil damp with expectation.
Harry hummed his seedling song – Hallelujah!