Vona Groarke

Five Poems

The New Garden
– for Helen O’Leary

 
In our inland gardens, the sea
with its freight of sorrowful songs
becomes a question answered by years
and poppies with their grown children,
their sunspilt photographs.
 
A light blue door with butterfly hinges
and a seedhead lock is opening for us.
And here we are in what we do
courtesy of unphased colour
pinned to sentences and air,
 
straight lines with the past in them
and something else besides
to put as we wish in ungilded frames
one white rose after another
until the garden is done with summer,
 
yes, our loss. No way back but back again
to gardens that forget themselves
for whole months at a time
only to turn out their box of tricks
at the first tilt of new light.
 
 

 

 

 

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