Outside in the forgotten garden   

blossom is falling from the old Plum tree

When, as a child My mother would make me

Pick up the plums In the sun,

That fell like autumn leaves 

 

I would Squash them into plastic 

  'KWIK SAVE' bags 

'Make sure you get them all'    

 She would often nag  And nag

. To the sound of the warrior wasp,

  Flaunting his tribal tattoo

On pink and red flowers  

And Yellow ones too.

 

And the distant hum

  of a neighbour's lawn mower   

A familiar sound 

I often awoke to In summer.

Now, hanging from a tired arm 

That extends So twisted and sad  

Clinging to a rusted chain

Swings my old punching bag.

 

Two leather straps are broken    

Two cling to a spring hook

I recall little birds flying away

When I hit it    the tree shook.

 

But now they've made a home    

On one undisturbed branch

Decorated in delicate blossom    

That sleeps like an avalanche 

 

Some escaping on the breeze

That takes them so  delicately

Resting on the grass that sleeps

Beneath the branches 

Of the old plum tree