Childhood Garden.

Here again;

my eyes tulips,

fists apples, 

feet groundsel.

Garden my mind,

spade spark stone,

bindweed's brilliant flowers,

clouds notions,

and all you said now clay,

my dears, my memories.

Turf high,

rhubarb hibernating in straw;

ridges ridges

my dear soul;

light on the lawn

and from between black clouds,

oh God speaks;

burst football under the privet,

rusted tins,

empty shells

and

snowdrops;

magnificent snowdrops.

With a very happy Christmas to all.