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.