It's Still Life

If There’s One, There’s Ten

Every year this airless clay
is turned, tilled and seeded.
A childbirth of preparation
out of winter’s wilderness.

Out of January’s bankruptcy.

And then May. A shift to blue.
The God of Azure has arrived.
Lupins. Stocks, and hollyhocks.
The air is sweet scented clove.

My mother wore that scent.

The thistle grows, daggers of
foxglove with crooked fingers.
And without a hint of breeze,
the cosmos sway in a rivered
motion, the ferns flinch, and

on the path a rat appears.

Sable brown. A long rod tail.
We freeze, it and me, our
stare locked. It turns and
disappears into the leaf.

I didn’t know Sussex had

rat catchers, He says where
there’s one, you’ll find ten,
but he only caught three.

written for dVerse Poet’s prompt “Gardening“. The photos are my own, taken today in the garden. . Shared with @dversepoets and @Experimentsinfc #APoemADay on Twitter   ©Misky 2021