Two Poems by Rose Mary Boehm

I once had a garden

I

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.

  

II

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.