The Journals in the Shed
This garden is alive with souls; my
grandfather planted these rose trees.
My father built the greenhouses,
pulled the first tomato, cucumber,
grape. The apple tree was here
before them all. How many before
me have plucked at these boughs?
It’s not clear who dug the trenches,
turned bricks and mortar into walls
because some pages are badly blotted.
I see skulls bob up and down
as huntsmen pass by and I know they’re
seated in saddles, even though their
mounts are out of view and the clip-clop
of hooves along the lane, out of sound.
grandfather planted these rose trees.
My father built the greenhouses,
pulled the first tomato, cucumber,
grape. The apple tree was here
before them all. How many before
me have plucked at these boughs?
It’s not clear who dug the trenches,
turned bricks and mortar into walls
because some pages are badly blotted.
I see skulls bob up and down
as huntsmen pass by and I know they’re
seated in saddles, even though their
mounts are out of view and the clip-clop
of hooves along the lane, out of sound.
Dai Miles
Mon 7th Apr 2008 22:25
Hi, Zuzana. What a lovely name! Thanks for commenting.