If I were a painter – and I would have
so many memorable titles – I would paint
your garden in all its rooms and seasons:
across the high back wall spring’s coral pink
clematis; summer’s sword-leaved, red-flamed
crocosmia by the aquamarine
gazebo; the white, weathered table and chairs
and the acer on the dark-brick terrace;
plants inherited, self-seeded, handed on
in stewardship – a world compendium.
You are the architect, builder, labourer –
and only begetter: ‘Sylvia Among
Her Sonnets Without Words’.
Pages:
By David Selzer