She was difficult, they said, but she loved flowers.
She planted white sweet scented narcissus
to dance before the loch
and yes, a host of golden daffodils.
Pink, purple and red rhododendrons
high enough to play under.
A windbreak for her Japanese scene.
Acrid smelling gold and coral azaleas
and a silvery wooden bench where
to sit and catch the weak northern sun.
Squirrels floating lightly on the beechmast
among pale wood anemones, later
above a rippling sea of blue so blue.
The huge gean tree on the north side
suddenly covered in frothy white
later with scarlet fruit for jam.
Her walled garden of delights with
oldfashioned colombines and tiger lilies,
lemon scented darkest red roses
and armfuls of rainbow sweet peas.
Sunwarmed Victorias and green Queen Claudes,
hairy striped red and jadegreen gooseberries,
and jewel-like redcurrants to use as earrings.
A secret place with only pale pink roses
and shyly nodding sky-blue pansies,
with a birdbath full of glinting wings
creating diamond flashing drops.
In autumn the calling skeins of geese
making us aware of winter looming,
and in the beechwood we shunned
violet amethyst deceivers,
damp glossy brown sow's ear
and jet black dead men's trumpets.
The birches turned to brightest yellow,
and her house was set alight by flaming creeper.
She was difficult, they said
but never once with me.
I loved her and her legacy,
delight in growing things.