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.
