Westmarsh in June

Westmarsh in June – an autograph


The deadly beauty of a foxglove, beckons

To me, a furlong of slow sensations.

A coincidence of humming arcs

Dance unawares around the awaiting lilacs,

Burgundies, vermilions. A courtier

Papillon in dalliance, glaring hauteur

In glorious burning blue, shimmers

In and out of scene in rumours

Like a Rosencrantz.  The deathly burst

Odour of a lily is a glorious ghost,

Who is all the more chillsome for the pleasant sun

Our garden keeps.  Between the outer garden,

Where the lavenders are, and where we currently take

Our aperitifs, a little sun remains.

A little evening lasts, in the lilac garden.

My grandparent’s garden in the little village of Westmarsh has always been an odd place in my memory. In summer, the butterflies and bees dance around the plush overgrowth of flowers, and we watch them as we take our drinks out on the lawn. But a strange sense of loss is always there, and I cannot say why. This is all Auden of course. And again, check out them half-rhymes. Well good poetry stuff there man. 


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s