Every year now:
First it’s those trumpeting Daffodils,
Bluebells and Crocuses.
Forsythia Time too.
All manner of colourful blossoms
On trees and shrubs.
Cherry Blossoms abound.

Then a succession of buds
And flowerings.
In my garden alone
We have tall
Some leaning
Pye Plants (as I call them):
Rustic red, pink and white.
Beds of Geraniums,
Some Purple or Blue
Or wide-spreading pink.

My lawn
Decorated with daisies
And buttercups
And unknown bright orange flowers
So orange…
And not forgetting
Those bright yellow Dandelions:
Officially weeds (like Pye Plants)
Yet full of sun.

I take pictures of these each year
But the come out the same
Just about.
More wild Lavateras this time
Maybe
With fewer ferns
(White flowered).
But my trusty roses
Keep coming up with
The goods.
Petal curled within petal.

My beautiful Weigela
Or maybe Abelia
Stands proud
In my back garden
Beneath the Cotoneasters.
A kaleidoscope of blossoming flowers
All attended by swarms
Of humming bees –
An orchestral murmur
Punctuated often
By squabbling sparrow twitterings
And blackbird badgerings.
Sacred gardens
To slumber down in.

Paul Butters

© PB 6\6\2020.

Sense seldom plays ball
Prefers to play hide and seek
Instead, oddly still.

Breakfast,
smash an egg or two
cream some cheese
stick a knife into the butter
cut some ham
and yet
I profess to be
a non-violent man.

life in lockdown.

I thought

that

             in some

fantasised version of

our

     Love,

                 you'd come in my life

in a

perfect            cliché

of

         roses and chocolates

Anyone can say that we should love someone not by his or her face but

It's a sad truth that we love someone friest by his or her face
Crack the myths and be practical