clover around the Mondo Grass – those collars of green
I planted amongst crushed river pebbles by the back fence.
What was I thinking is a question often floating in the garden.
I sweep leaves as I go, remembering how long it has been
since I was this low to the ground,
how long it has been through winter
since I have smelt the damp earth,
noticed the buttercups, fallen twigs,
English Ivy slipping between fence palings.
I drag the green bin along the pavers, its wheels clattering
and scraping against the concrete edges.
Squatting to weed, I think of the meal and wine
shared for a friend’s sixtieth,
the way he spoke of making art for the community
of friends present or absent,
which prompts me to consider how audience changes
according to intents and purposes. He spoke also
of making time to like yourself –
difficult in an over-achieving world.
My back aches each time I lurch for a new weed.
Relieved when they are pulled out easily,
I decide to mow, then collect fallen pink camellias
from the tree by the front door.
They are soaked, turning brown, the edges
mildewed as an apple core.
I place them in a circle around the front garden bed
that is a mix of salvias, Lamb’s Ears, Grevilleas
and a sprightly Manchurian Pear in the centre.
The contrast works and I realise it is one of the few
creative acts I have achieved this week –
placing fallen petals around the edge of a garden bed.
Johnny Cash was arrested for stealing flowers.
The Stones sang of the dead. Perhaps
I will come to notice the camellias in the coming week,
feel the kick as from a recently finished poem –
something layered in doubt but flickering with surprise,
the way one snake story sheds its skin for another.
I pull the cord on the mower.
The neighbours drive past, waving.

Brendan Ryan