Alongside, calling through a billowing swell of roses
Sang a blackbird
And I caught his thought and saw his song proposes
This garden holds more tunes than I have ever heard.
And then I caught his eye, gleaming with such intent
To make us understand
His piercing note foretold a coming nightmare urgent
We must care for lives other than our own, as planned.
At last, a drenching sun held the high walled garden
In dappling embrace
Where droney bees toured lavenders
Awash with nectared perfume.
And countless flowers threw themselves up, up towards
The blinding, fiery light
Exuding scents gushing yet dallying
In breathless air as we, enchanted, trod narrow, blissful paths.
Such clingy warmth made the castle garden
Sing with joy
As shiny, black and purple reflectant beetles
Journeyed at pace across aged flags.
A resident troupe of beetle-nabbing Dumpies resplendent
In oily, golden plumage
Confident in their preening beauty, parading
While enraptured lovers absorbed this paradise.
What joy, as shimmering, tumbling nature impacts the senses
In a drowsy garden that
Allows us colours and shapes and scents masking bold endeavour
And, sharing with its engrossed inhabitants, a love of life itself.
After a dreadful Winter, with no Spring, along came this glorious day.
The garden is heavenly and the warmth golden.
Bitter is the taste
Of grudging praise
When every seething sinew
In the opposite direction.
That flamin’ Aussie
Our dogs of war
And lays about him,
When all was flamin’ set
To trounce, devour, incinerate
Our dearest Aussie foes
And heap bright flamin’ coals
And wield wild flamin’ rods
Of pure titanium
About their ducking heads.
But then, my fury pricked itself
Upon the savage needles
Of my leery bombast, while
Seeing roaring coals and hissing steel
In recognition of
My own simple-mindedness.
So, well done, Aussie lad
Even though you made me sad
By plucking my frenzy mad
It’s I, not you, that’s mad a tad
So, well done, Aussie lad.
Did your hair wash nicely this morning?
Or was that peroxide melting the bowl?
Were your curlers not shouting a warning?
That where once there was hair, there’s a hole!
Swooning near the candelabra
Always suspected she was only
One or two misunderstandings
Away from being accepted
As an Opera
In her own right.
At the end of a trill
To enlighten her.
Oh, where to look?
Perhaps the attic
Pursuing this most