07-07-2016, 05:18 AM
I spent twenty years establishing a garden from a thistle paddock. I left it behind when I left Australia 8 years ago. I wrote this, to remind me of where everything was, so I can still take a walk around it. Here in NZ I grow only kitchen herbs in a small bed at the door, and medicinal herbs hidden behind the oak tree in the front yard.
A Long Poem About Nothing Much.
(If you like gardens, you’re welcome to wander. If not, pass on, stranger.)
Start in that corner, there
where the sage sits.
walk along the fence from him
(fence? It’s like a mad woman’s knitting,
cobbled together with anything handy
at least it keeps out the sheep.)
First the purple plum that shelters
a white rose; between her and her twin sister
sweet peas blanket the fence, sprawling
onto the grass, reaching for the roses’ consort
the tortured willow, and climbing in.
Beside him some small lilacs.
They’ve finished flowering already
next to the wild birds’ water, the seed feed tray
on the fencepost.
A basket willow guards the gate.
An uneven row of poplars runs to the corner
toeing a bed full with Shasta daisies, just opening,
yellow daisies burning bright
and Christmas bells, long spears of pendant blossoms
on the orange side of scarlet,
loved by the honeysucker birds, and the new grevillea
that blooms with big orange spiders
poking out red tongues as they ripen.
This is the western side, the water trees
give shade in the hot summer afternoons
then lose their leaves to let in the weak winter sun.
This corner is a mess. Privet, japonica,
double pink roses and honeysuckle, all in a jumble.
A stray plum tree has grown long and thin
behind the final poplar.
Turn right, northern boundary, new fence, this one,
hen run on the other side. The mystic dark pink rose
grows here, near a lilt of lilacs, more honeysuckle.
Mind the canopy of the quince tree, step over irises,
past wallflowers growing without a wall,
pink swollen heads of valerium,
lace of yarrow, velvet tongues of comfrey.
Push through the dark purple lilacs
and bush cherries, almost ripe already,
Sloping downhill now
to the first of the gum trees in a line
not yet very tall, a corridor of koala snacks.
(koalas eat only this one tree). Between the gums
ti-tree in flower, delicate porcelain paintings,
and other natives whose name I don’t know,
fetched home from the river or the bush,
The driveway keeps going down to the road
but we’ll turn right, along the eastern boundary
facing the river and the mountain. New fence,
nothing much happens here. Odd marigolds,
California poppies, and escaping oregano are establishing
along with some pale purple poppies, first planted
by Celestial gold miners needing the comfort of home.
They say, if you follow the drift of the poppies
you can find the lost Chinese gold mines. Imagine that,
following the tracks of the flowers, backwards, up into the hills,
back into time…
Give way to the pine tree, mournful moaning in the breeze,
back uphill now, this is another old fence,
strainers split a century ago, augered with such skill
they stand still, and hold what wire there is.
Wombats and baby kangaroos have doors along here
they crawl or scramble through at dawn and dusk
daily.
Inside the fence, a line of trees, from England, or Europe,
maple-shaped leaves, bright yellow, or lime green.
The line ends at the artichokes. I could eat them
but let them flower, huge purple silk pompoms
that become giant clocks, like dandelions on growth hormones.
Next, the nectarine, almost as tall
as the apple tree above it. I missed the rose
planted over the dead hens, after the fox killed them
early this spring. It hasn’t flowered yet.
Then, a row of big pots;
tomatoes, cucumbers, chilies, squash and beans
leading to the asparagus bed, left to fern now.
The potting bench, the plant nursery, and into
raspberry tangle, growing freely in and out of
briar roses over the fence. Ripe raspberries. Help yourself.
Past the water tank, where mint
won’t not grow and flourish,
along the corrugated, galvanized side
of another garden bed, to meet again
the venerable sage, and end
this stroll around the boundaries of my garden.
To see the garden beds, or house, or orchard,
or workshop, or studio,
you’ll have to come back again, another time.
A Long Poem About Nothing Much.
(If you like gardens, you’re welcome to wander. If not, pass on, stranger.)
Start in that corner, there
where the sage sits.
walk along the fence from him
(fence? It’s like a mad woman’s knitting,
cobbled together with anything handy
at least it keeps out the sheep.)
First the purple plum that shelters
a white rose; between her and her twin sister
sweet peas blanket the fence, sprawling
onto the grass, reaching for the roses’ consort
the tortured willow, and climbing in.
Beside him some small lilacs.
They’ve finished flowering already
next to the wild birds’ water, the seed feed tray
on the fencepost.
A basket willow guards the gate.
An uneven row of poplars runs to the corner
toeing a bed full with Shasta daisies, just opening,
yellow daisies burning bright
and Christmas bells, long spears of pendant blossoms
on the orange side of scarlet,
loved by the honeysucker birds, and the new grevillea
that blooms with big orange spiders
poking out red tongues as they ripen.
This is the western side, the water trees
give shade in the hot summer afternoons
then lose their leaves to let in the weak winter sun.
This corner is a mess. Privet, japonica,
double pink roses and honeysuckle, all in a jumble.
A stray plum tree has grown long and thin
behind the final poplar.
Turn right, northern boundary, new fence, this one,
hen run on the other side. The mystic dark pink rose
grows here, near a lilt of lilacs, more honeysuckle.
Mind the canopy of the quince tree, step over irises,
past wallflowers growing without a wall,
pink swollen heads of valerium,
lace of yarrow, velvet tongues of comfrey.
Push through the dark purple lilacs
and bush cherries, almost ripe already,
Sloping downhill now
to the first of the gum trees in a line
not yet very tall, a corridor of koala snacks.
(koalas eat only this one tree). Between the gums
ti-tree in flower, delicate porcelain paintings,
and other natives whose name I don’t know,
fetched home from the river or the bush,
The driveway keeps going down to the road
but we’ll turn right, along the eastern boundary
facing the river and the mountain. New fence,
nothing much happens here. Odd marigolds,
California poppies, and escaping oregano are establishing
along with some pale purple poppies, first planted
by Celestial gold miners needing the comfort of home.
They say, if you follow the drift of the poppies
you can find the lost Chinese gold mines. Imagine that,
following the tracks of the flowers, backwards, up into the hills,
back into time…
Give way to the pine tree, mournful moaning in the breeze,
back uphill now, this is another old fence,
strainers split a century ago, augered with such skill
they stand still, and hold what wire there is.
Wombats and baby kangaroos have doors along here
they crawl or scramble through at dawn and dusk
daily.
Inside the fence, a line of trees, from England, or Europe,
maple-shaped leaves, bright yellow, or lime green.
The line ends at the artichokes. I could eat them
but let them flower, huge purple silk pompoms
that become giant clocks, like dandelions on growth hormones.
Next, the nectarine, almost as tall
as the apple tree above it. I missed the rose
planted over the dead hens, after the fox killed them
early this spring. It hasn’t flowered yet.
Then, a row of big pots;
tomatoes, cucumbers, chilies, squash and beans
leading to the asparagus bed, left to fern now.
The potting bench, the plant nursery, and into
raspberry tangle, growing freely in and out of
briar roses over the fence. Ripe raspberries. Help yourself.
Past the water tank, where mint
won’t not grow and flourish,
along the corrugated, galvanized side
of another garden bed, to meet again
the venerable sage, and end
this stroll around the boundaries of my garden.
To see the garden beds, or house, or orchard,
or workshop, or studio,
you’ll have to come back again, another time.