I could write a poem about
what’s in my garden,
but, while it’s a perfectly
nice garden –
think small, walled courtyard,
with climbing Malvern roses on one wall,
the heads of the poet’s wife roses
popping out to say hello
from behind the recently cleaned
old, wooden bench,
itself a couple of feet away
from the washing line whirligig
and sun-lounger,
both canopied by a navy-blue sail,
diagonally opposite the round glass table
and its matching plastic rattan chairs,
behind which is the green gate
for entrance and exit –
well, it’s really not worth
describing
in a poem,
is it?
