Heartlines

The long hot days lead me to go
and view the garden long unkept,
the uncut grass, the bushes grow
unpruned, unshaped, where weeds have crept.

I sit beside the shimmering pond
beneath the shading cherry tree,
recalling memories so fond,
your picture resting on my knee.

This garden was your love and life,
the passion of your final years.
But now, my dear departed wife,
Should be the vale of all my tears.

Still, Spring is here, the flowers grow,
the fresh dug bed is doing fair.
The shrubs I planted should forgo
the cats inclined to dig right there.

You loved the garden more than I,
it filled your every wakening hour.
In fairness I could not deny
your permanent and final bower.

Terry Wassall

One of the Headingley Open Gardens collection. Click to see the full list

Pinks and blue-greys of the patio slabs
Brought in containers from an Indian shore
To lie in Bradford, so far from home,
Where I sit book in hand, and meditate.

Lavender, marigold and sun flowers
Fill the margins of my scented sanctuary.
Beyond, the clematis-draped trellis fence,
ferns, bluebells and wild garlic at its foot.

As daylight fades, the dove blue sky darkens.
The honeyed perfumes of evening flowers
drift in on the breeze, the smell of cut grass,
honeysuckle, wall flowers, scented stocks.

Above the high hedge at the garden’s end,
the tall trees in the park silhouetted
against the rose suffused evening sky,
wheeling birds, barrel rolling for insects.

Below the hedge, the pond mirrors the sky,
fringed by banks of yellow marsh marigold
and flag iris; duck weed and lily pads.
The water swimming with teeming tadpoles.

A Doric head and a moon gazing hare,
an enamel frog on a rock peering
through the grass stand guard as a blackbird bathes,
dun partner watching from the ivied shed.

The flower borders glow with pinks, mauve, white;
the sharp cat-pee smell of flowering current
blends the tangy aroma of mock orange,
A hint of rosemary, mint and damp earth.

The budding fruit canes of raspberry, blackberry,
black and red currant, shield the strawberry patch
and hide the steepled rows of potatoes
inter-cropped with globe radish and rocket.

The background hum of traffic fades away.
A gentle breeze rustles the foliage
now syncopated with the pattering
of pulsing drizzle as it tries to rain.

The breeze hardens and swings round from the north
brings a stab of cold air and me to my feet.
I retreat indoors, for a glass of wine,
and the everyday story of country folk.

Terry Wassall

One of the Headingley Open Gardens collection. Click to see the full list

Garden, you are always there.
No day
No month
No year is like any other.

Between the sky and the earth
You watch and wait
But under that seemingly – calm exterior
you keep stock
You count the days
Weeks
Seasons
Taking pleasure in them

The sowing and the hoeing
The cutting and the tending
We think we control you
But it is you who controls us

Your heart beats to the tune of time
You see all
Know all
And though you die each year
The promise sticks fast

The promise that you will come again,
and again,
and again.

You are always there.

Myrna Moore

One of the Headingley Open Gardens collection. Click to see the full list

Bless the blackbird.
All is held in stasis
When she sings.
Her song clears out
The splintered thoughts.
She does not rest

Where the gardeners
Have humanized their hedges;
No straight lines in her voice,
Geometry is not in her nature.
For her alone, a song replies.

Howard Benn

One of the Headingley Open Gardens collection. Click to see the full list

It is morning grey,
Then the great white diamond rises in the east,
Splintering the light.
Now I see a garden full of gems.
From the pots, burning rubies overflow,
Spilling to the ground.
Tiny sapphires scatter the lawn.
Amber spirals up the walls,
Topaz cascades, waterfalls.
Golden stems with heads of quartz,
Dancing jet on silver stalks.
And emeralds high and low,
Humming in the sky,
Surrounding the rose stones
Sown by the diamond.

Howard Benn

One of the Headingley Open Gardens collection. Click to see the full list

A snowdrop winked at the crocuses.
“Beautiful friends,” she said,
“We are heralds of better days.”

A daffodil was chatting to a daisy.
She uttered dainty words.
The daisy giggled sonorously.

A rose turned her ruffled head
Towards the lily.
“I’m so happy, so happy to be here.”

A bluebell resonated in the breeze.
“Spurr-ringh,” she chanted.
The dandelion nodded with glee.

I didn’t like the voices of the flowers.
Too joyous. Too high-pitched.
I went round the garden pulling them out.

It was then the flower ambulance
Howled into view.
It was then the toy police car came

and took me away.

Linda Marshall

One of the Headingley Open Gardens collection. Click to see the full list

Framed in my April bedroom window,
the silver birch sparkles with emerald beads
as Spring’s renewal broadens its shadow
and joyful birds satisfy their needs.

Now in Summer its foliage fully grown,
it flies a tall green flag on a silver pole
and the wood pigeon sways on its lofty throne,
while the sight of the tree refreshes my soul.

Autumn may well be its most glorious season,
as its leaves turn to russet and gold,
which sadly it will soon jettison
and lay a magic carpet on my threshold.

Although with winter its branches will be bare,
Resplendent white silver bark its trunk will share.

Marie Paule Sheard

One of the Headingley Open Gardens collection. Click to see the full list

I saw her, the single tulip.
Her red head vibrant amongst the green ferns
at the bottom of the garden.
She stands tall, slender, straight,
almost surprised to find herself here.
I sit and stare as she trembles slightly
in the gentle April breeze.

The next time I visit her, she is still beautiful but
no longer the shy red head, her heart held tight
as a secret within her glorious crown.
Time and the warm days of spring have morphed her
into the sensuous belle of the ball.
She sways gaily, her head a little bent to the side,
proud, it seems, to display her changing hues,
no longer as pure scarlet as before but rich crimson, burgundy even,
unaware perhaps that her blousy chiffons ruffles
are starting to curl at the edges, fading to dusty pink.

Marie Paule Sheard

One of the Headingley Open Gardens collection. Click to see the full list