Sarah St Vincent Welch # 190 archaeology of gardens

to find near the end of your days

an archaeology of gardens

we can enjoy together

we can enjoy 

seeds, patterns, flowering,

history

a stone wall uncovered, discovered

traces a maze

the journeys of strangers

the shape of old beds

tree roots twisting under

I offered in these last decades

books of flowers

books of women gardeners,

Vita and Enid,

and I treasure yours

walk up to the front door

through its ageing shrubs

gardens are dreams for me

musings of possibility

growth, seasons, beauty, dirty hands

and knees

examining the aphid and bee

at my child height in memory

pulling weeds shaking soil from their roots

happy at the wriggle flip of the worm

my spade missed

the scent of humus, digging beneath, cutting back

looking under, watching

and you watched from the high window

as I watered our garden in summer

you let me be lost in my dreams, this better place

the best place I could be, and I think you knew

as you left me there alone

bare foot on the front lawn

with the rainbow spray

veins on a leaf, the whorl of a snail drooping heavy on a leaf,

with all the plants sprung from cuttings

collected over years from friends

(you could name them all and remember

point out as you walked past

cuttings from relatives passed away)

I remember your open secateurs

the jars at the kitchen window

you taught me the shape of leaves and petals

taxonomies, botanical and common names

an order that made some sense in everything else

but I never managed it

the tasks of my dreams were too great

now

I have two apple trees entwined

in a courtyard, and I can relate that we had one true harvest

(plenty of woolly aphid lacing through spring since, my dear).  

I dream of orchards and making jam.

we share our apples with the wasps and a possum.

I have cacti (they flower every year, pastel and rare)

scorched on our scouring balcony.

I have herbs (we cut for dinner)

oregano, marjoram, rosemary, basil, sage

small achievements to tend

am grateful for

what survives drought and frost

and now, I feel, the leaf edge of white camellias

dark and waxy, catch against skin

wonder at the imperfections of bruises

on white petals, about decay

how the petals fell as I touched them to my face

in your garden