In This Garden

In this garden

our parents surround us,

apple trees in June,

this custard sun

poured through dappled leaves

and here

are tennis ball catch games

among the dewy grass

and wet knees

one, then two,

as butter-fingered slips

make Broken Bottles of us children.

Bad Eggs

One, two, three then throw -

Stick in the Mud

and Off Ground Touch

We are Pirates between

summer’s laundered sheets

hung on rigging lines

or we are fleeing from Witches

finding refuge in the fuschia

Afternoons

are buddleia butterflied

are summer puddings

and Angel Delight,

while tea-drunk adults

sit on the daisy lawn

humbly chatting

through their children’s games.

Cousins race between

flowerbeds and cricket stumps

in rubber boots bound

from one to the next

as they grow into them

and then out.

The smallest child sirens panic

as a wasp takes it prisoner

droning at the nose and jammy mouth

while the child

backs helpless

towards a parent

There were sometimes,

but not now,

fox cubs in this garden

in the early evening quiet

safe among the walled flowers

snapping at pollen flies

like lizards

then toppling each other

into a frenzied ball

before freezing

in a heart-stopped moment,

attention taken

by some unseen threat.

I’d watch them from the window

and then,

days later,

find myself there

in the very spot

they had inhabited

still seeing their berry-black eyes

in froth-furred faces

and I’d hold my face close to the damp earth

and trace their scent

still lingering in the grass.

And from where I’m sitting now

I see

a blackbird feed its chick in the bay tree

and infant sparrows on the panel fence

chirring their wings

for their parents.

When I was twelve

I would map

every exact location

of every nesting bird

in this garden

and took my daily rounds

to inspect each nest

as if my knowing

would somehow

help.

I watched as fledglings

fledged

I swooped with worried laughter

to help the juvenile

who fluttered against the window pane

in desperate search

for some thing to perch

upon.

I watched for cats.

But it is getting late.

This midsummer sun is setting

and garden colours are

overlaid with dusky greys.

And they have gone who linked their arms

around us.

So now I in turn stretch

my hands to touch the sky

above my daughters’ heads

Stando!

Stick in the Mud,

teach them to catch,

to throw,

to hide,

to find

and count the spotted

ladybirds

as they climb

carapace open

and wings spread

to our fingers’ tips.