Sunday, 1 November 2009

The Summer House

I spiral through the washing,

up the path towards the summit.

It hides behind the gazebo, caged by

the trellises and the wall of rockery.

Mrs Taylor’s Conifer creeps over too,

golden on our side

like a lighthouse.

I leave Mum’s beds at peace these days,

letting them prosper to flaming reds and purples.

The begonias I crushed as a kid

with the array flicks of the football.

I was Cantona then.

I’m into Kesey now.

It’s never silent, the persistent wasps

and issuing from next door fidgeting my thoughts.

Sometimes I can read eighty plus. Then it rains,

and I’m stolen.

The slow increasing patter on the roof,

and rattles of the plastic windows.

I rise from my cushioned seat

that would suit winter so well, and step outside

onto the deck. This is a nice place to stop, as I

narrate the scents of dampening wood and flowers.

Darren, DMU

1 comment:

Remembering Places said...

Dear Darren,

Some fascinating uses of unexpected verbs here - you have a really poetic turn of phrase. I think the poem as a whole probably needs redrafting in order to help flow and syntax - but there's a beautiful and touching eye for detail here.

Thanks for posting this, Jonathan