It was the year the humming-bird hawkmoths
never showed up to feast on the waiting banquet
of pink valerian which I allow to colonise one side
of the drive, self-seeded into the narrow gap
between tarmac and kerb. The plants billow so,
I can barely squeeze from the car or get my bike through.
It’s worth it to see the daytime moths zipping
along the candyfloss flowerheads, beating wings
too fast to see, long tongues supping nectar
conjured from this stolen strip of land.
The neighbour’s agile ginger tom found no reason
to lie in wait below the butterfly bush, instead
lounged placid on car bonnets. It was either too hot
or too wet for my liking. I fretted at sun-damaged skin,
replaced the seedling beans and cabbages I’d nurtured,
only to see new ones chewed to stumps overnight.
Chickens grew to recognise my bucket of snails.
I let a monstrous teasel in the lawn by the bird feeder
grow to twice my height, and ivy overhung
the greenhouse like stormclouds, tomatoes inside
stretching for light, fruits tiny. I wanted to be out
getting fit, slept badly, had to admit that I was lonely.
There were days when little more got done
than a pan of home-made soup. Some of this
I put down to climate change.
*https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/articles/cy7924v502wo
Rose Lennard
Rose writes poems because few things feel as good as writing poetry. If her poems make other people feel good, or even just feel, that’s a plus. It seems they do, as many have now found homes with publications including Rattle, Stand, Prole, Atrium, IS&T, Quartet, and Phare.