Friday, 9 August 2013

Olden Garden


The flower bed was olden 
(to my mind)
redolent of a childhood garden 
where asters and veronicas 
do-si-doed in kaleidoscopic patchworks 
(and lovely fragrant balm bursts) 
of pansies and petunias and pungent marigolds;

splashed, periodically,  in watermelon  
and popsicle drip drops 
that fell from up above – from me.

It was like no other yard that I had ever  
(or would ever) see; 
for everywhere flowers tumbled 
in wild topsy-turvy profusion;

in sharp contrast  
(or so it seemed to me then – and still) 
to the two, somewhat buttoned down, gardeners 
(as I recall my grandparents to have been).

They passed when I was little more than a child  
(one soon after the other)

and yet, when I see an olden garden, now, 
without rows or without colors separated, artfully - 
and without a spot of dirt to be found

I think of them, for a bit –
   
though I don’t remember much more, 
than that: 
they played bridge, 
they went for long drives in the car, 
and they lost both their sons 
in the Second World War.

note:  Had a birthday this week, which (the more they pile up ) seems to stir up long ago memories.

Photos:  Olden Garden - W. Bourke

© 2013 Wendy Bourke

1 comment:

  1. Happy (late) Birthday! Beautiful photos and lovely poem remembrance.

    though I don’t remember much more,
    than that:
    they played bridge,
    they went for long drives in the car,
    and they lost both their sons
    in the Second World War.

    Poignant, unexpected ending.

    ReplyDelete