GARDEN IN MAY

In this May garden:

Where the greenfinch shines in the sun and whose wings
flash yellow when she flies.

Where fledglings clamour for food where the once flowered
bluebell is amply podded.

Where moles burrow their labyrinthian tunnels and where
they dot the lawn with volcanoes of soil.

Where flies meander over the grass and where they rest
and scuttle on verdant leaves.

Where the seed pods of honesty are spattered with
raindrops.

Where pond frogs drift languidly, half submerged, and where
freshly washed towels swell gently in the breeze.


In this garden:

Where lilies are burnt and blackened by winter frosts.

Where roses spill their petals and whose leaves are marred
by caterpillars.

Where swallows are swallowed up by the vast blue sky.

Where the wind chimes tinkle and where the high-flying
aircraft shudders the air with its low sonorous sound.

Where cats pretend to stalk and kill and where they recline
in shadowy hideouts with their paws outstretched.

Where robins splash and frolic in the birdbath and where
the skittish blue tit flits and whirrs its dainty wings.


In the evening in this garden:

Where bats flutter erratically and where a house mouse
fusses at the edge of the undergrowth.

Where trees are washed orange by the setting sun.

Where the blackbird utters its warning cry, and whose liquid
melody gushes forth from apple boughs.

Where tiny dragon mouths of honeysuckle permeate
the air with their perfume.

Where pots huddle by the garden shed.

Where at dusk the lights of the house warm and brighten
against the oncoming gloom.

Where the crescent moon peeks from ephemeral clouds.

All these I have loved in this glorious garden in May.

after Walt Whitman