White Silence

Clothed in winter whites,
The garden sleeps beneath
The pale under-belly of the
Snow-laden clouds.
Curled, crinkled leaves freckle the ground
As shadows from the skeletal canopies
Criss-cross the lawn.
Colourless,
But for one dichotomous ruby rose
Lolling rudely by the five bar gate,
And gloating at the tepid hues.
White silence in the garden,
Although tiny prints betray the mystery
Of a bird’s dawn visit.
Its footsteps in the snow, disappearing
On the ice-polished pond.
And still the snowman keeps guard,
As soft, slow, silent snow falls,
Frilling grass and lacing trees.
The hedgehog stays furled and warm
Beneath the hawthorn’s rotting leaves,
Whilst a bird sits sulking on a frost-fringed fence.
Sombre trees stretch skyward,
Entreating the reluctant rays for some warmth
From behind the steel-grey clouds.
And underfoot, iced diamonds glint,
A constellation of a million tiny twinkles
Wrap the garden in festive trimmings,
To be unwrapped by the coming thaw.

The Garden Swing

And still it hangs, the garden swing,
Beneath the ancient elm.
Its weather-frayed rope, knotted with memories
Of summers past and childhood days.
I sit awhile to reminisce,
And inhale the sweet perfumed air,
As the splintered seat protests
With groaning creaks of age.
Lemon trumpets nod their heads
Lost in forgotten borders,
Overcrowded with creeping greens
And twisting browns.
Cloud-shadows slink across the lawn,
Patterning with jigsaw shapes,
Highlighting bejewelled leaves
Decorated with silver beads;
A gift left from a recent shower.
Budding twigs reach for the cyan sky,
As if pointing to a higher power,
As grumbling crows take flight
Like black smudges on a canvas;
Flitting and swirling on mild zephyrs.
And daisies gather to gossip and sway,
Waiting for tiny fingers to pluck and thread
Their stems, into chains of gold and white.