I once had a garden
Spring the blues,
burst from black, hard and white
push open the crust.
Ice is bigger than water.
That is the kind of enchantment
which comes with March.
Snowdrops cut through remaining crystal blankets,
bamboo shoots push through grey flesh,
man’s impatience will force paperwhite.
While the earth is still drowsy, chattering daffodils
annoy the pious iris reticulate;
forscythia and scilla bloom
beneath the soft branches of pussy willow.
Break open the word.
Tulips stand to attention before
they give in to gravity and bend their
heavy heads in acquiescence.
Rhododendron show off in red and white,
pink azaleas look down, abashed.
For more see muscari, redbud, dogwood,
magnolia, trillium, and primrose.
Witch hazel flies by moonlit night,
croci knit multicoloured dream coats
while helleboreae modestly wait
for the upbeat. Camelia plays
hard to get but offers itself
as boutonnière; and I get drunk
on lilly of the valley and peonies
under the nearby lilac tree.
A remembered Spring is boundless.
Never more than now
I read a poem about silent growing. Not like the grass
making a racket or the holly scratching and whispering
behind thick roots about magic as though memory makes up
for loss. It walked through me then and left behind stillness
and wonder, grassland and willow, soft brown muzzles and ruminations,
the chatterings of droplets on moss, the rustling water rat
and coolness. Coolness. Then the cloud rolled in from the sea
and broke over the mountain.
German-born UK national, Rose Mary Boehm lives and works in Lima, Peru. Author of two novels and a poetry collection (TANGENTS), her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in many major poetry reviews.