Garden attraction this Autumn,
is an archway of pink cream stars;
jasmine, the Bishop of Llandoff begrudged.
In his own blood red petals,
how can he be outraged by lipstick dahlias,
especially when breeze touched, they sway,
to perform their dance of the flowers?
‘We are the purple,’ trumpets the malvas,
‘The pumpkin is a ripe dome, ready for Halloween.’
Michaelmas agrees, he leans on their foliage!
Gypsy’s sultriness lingers whilst she meanders
with pebble streams,
on her way to flirt with the agrimenthum studs,
who display THE themselves over their canopies.
As I gaze at papery petals,
the poppy with a reddened throat says,
that children made the pond I had admired.
Softness surprises me,
when I brush my hand over the dew,
bejewelled shag pile grass.
Trailing footprints I see,
the Spanish broom sweep the air in swirls.
But who is the guilty one?
Whoever knocked the pole wonky,
maybe children, when they erected it,
or fox that lurks in undergrowth,
the cat that prowls; having rubbed against, scratched?
Perhaps he climbed to investigate,
beyond the crescent entry of the bird house.
But then there is the gymnast, squirrel.