Thursday, November 22, 2012



Creeping over land
Solid and yet transparent
The mist magics us.


I did but see them, passing by,
Almost weed-like, almost shy.
Growing in unlikely places
With their little orange faces.
Nasturtiums, they grow everywhere;
Rocky, sandy, the don't care.
Casting shadows that are small;
On pavement and on garden wall.
Gardeners search for something rare;
Gardeners tinker and compare,
Using Latin names with pride,
Hoping we'll be mystified.
A gardener hopes to find a rarity
He can nurture for posterity.
He studies every catalogue;
Even every gardening blog,
In the hope that soon he'll claim
A plant to carry-on his name.
But I dedicate this ballad
To leaves that we use in a salad,
And to little orange faces
Spied in unexpected places.

1 comment:

Margaret Gosden said...

Love 'Mist'. Would make an etching of it if I could!!!