In the garden with the cherry tree –
where daffodils curb the fence –
cats in long grass stalk the birds
and the rhubarb patch is bursting.
The back of next door’s shed.
A white wall of pebbledash.
It’s one almighty canvas,
the same size as a goal.
In the garden with a trampoline centre –
first love sits poised in morning air –
though we haven’t shut our eyes all night,
we’re more alive than ever here.
King of the burning woodpile.
Trimmed weeds in a mound.
Neighbours chirping out of view.
Sport scores over a blaring tune.
In the garden that’s become a home –
close to my place of worship –
guests wave outside the temple,
years and years of well-wishers.
Looking out for hedgehogs.
Feeding a family of foxes.
Like a wave in my brain,
memories come flooding in.
In the garden that was aforementioned –
long after daylight has drowned –
a friend of mine sits next to me
and we gaze through broken cloud.
We’ve seen everything here:
sun, rain, snow and hail.
This garden knows all my pain
and has helped me to heal.