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.