A garden

by Carmen Lavin

A garden is a place to heal

and dream

in space

where birds you cannot see sing out of trees.

There is serenity

and possibility

creation

inspiration

transformation

history

connection

memory

everywhere you look.

A garden is a haven

shared

a sanctuary

where we go on

learning

yearning

smiling

weeping too

in intimate, unremarked shadows.

A garden brings us out with

seeds

trowels

ladders

spades

and always work to do.

A garden shows us

how everything is different every year,

where trees and plants grow

(and in their turn die),

where frosts can scorch

and then

in yet another springtime

that same tree can produce profusions of light, strong bursts of

breathtaking splendour

as violets on the bank beneath

peep shyly through dark leaves.

A garden nourishes us

flourishes us

gives us reassurance

in its endurance

catches winds stinging our cheeks and

rain, sometimes relentless,

sometimes relief (no need to water lettuces today)

and you know

where to catch sunlight in each turning moment between dawn and dusk

while new scents rise from the damp earth, daphne, azaleas and blossoms –

expecting

plenty more to come.

Feel the bark of every tree

crusted, crinkly, smooth, creased, puckered,

speckled, mottled

just like us.

Go on – you know all their names –

you can say them without looking –

after all, you planted them –

hawthorn

pocket handkerchief, its handkerchiefs hanging like washing on the line, and

weeping pear

tulip tree

hornbeam

magnolia grandiflora (although this one’s not grand at all)

magnolia stellata (first to blossom every year)

crabapple (from such dear and precious friends)

liquidamber, now grown as tall as the one which frames it distantly

olive (from another special friendship)

cherries (one from cousins)

blue spruce

and by the lane

lilac

acer bright as blood and

the marvellous birch dribbling its rustling leaves

watching comings, goings pass.

Back on the bench –

the one which came out of another garden,

where you were once a child

played clock-golf

French cricket

hopscotch

learned to knit – that first great ball of wool was blue –

read your stories to assembled teddy-bears under the cherry-tree

revised your chemistry

pricked fingers sewing hems and buttons

played with your faithful dog

confided secrets into his fur

with your stroking fingers

knowing that he understood –

here sitting on this same bench

in the evening warmth

remember

the changing stillness which you’ve shared

in rippling laughter

while the grasses, high now, quiver back and forth,

still now

as the air catches those precious conversations

in half a dozen languages

and unforgettable voices.

These are the spruces and the conifers where grandchildren have found hiding-places –

ready, ready or not –

hunted for Easter eggs and planted sunflowers

picked apples from trees planted at their births

where bulbs planted in the autumn to mark your mother’s death

flower at the anniversary of her birth every spring

exuberantly.

Voltaire wrote Candide –

ending,

after all the travels, struggles, hopes, wars, brutalities and disillusions,

with the resolution of the words ‘il faut cultiver notre jardin’ - in three days.

Did you know that?

Did you know that the gnomon on the sun-dial

in its original Greek

signifies

‘one that knows or examines’

throwing its long shadow over

hours

transitions

transformations?

A garden mirrors time

in golden pools of falling gingko leaves

as, one by one,

each tree’s magnificent branches grow winter-dark

and leaves are piled on compost-heaps

and earth dug over

supervised by robins, worms and ants,

snails too of course.

Weeds come again

again

again

and it’s time to

trim shrubs

and wait.

A sculptured hand beckons between brickwork by the door

to welcome

and create.

Young fingers hold onto old ones

trace each other’s life-lines

and a voice asks

‘may I come again’?

New seeds are sown (tomatoes, beans and cucumbers, musk mallow, bee balm)

peonies blouse out and

roses start to bloom –

strong ruby wedding, golden wedding (gifts from children)

Dancing Queen and Shropshire Lad rising above the weathered stone

which bears your father’s name

and beyond

the Queen of Sweden

John Betjeman and Judi Dench

Gentle Hermione and Ancient Mariner

Vanessa Bell and Mary Rose

Ghislaine de Féligonde

dozens more

each fragrant in another way,

as the bees hum.

Rose petals fly towards the wildflowers

carried by the breeze from the east.

The gust subsides.

The petals land, caught in blades of grass.

They make a pattern, gather shapes as they lie on the ground,

an A, an O if you look from an angle

amongst the other hieroglyphics

with their own meanings.

Winter winds follow the same path through the air as

summer breezes.

They hush over the snow

when the time comes for footprints of night’s animals to

track other choreographies.

Many roots are here

with generations of unspoken thoughts

and sometimes they get tangled

and then they need us to dig deep

renew the soil

and trust.

Outside the gate

there is a dog-walker

someone with a new plan

another baby

shopping-list

a postman

and messages of

unfurling hope and

changes deafening the sense

right out of life.

Our garden knows about it all.

It’s excavated all of this,

felt it,

felt it all.

In our garden

poppies blaze and

cherries ripen

voices call

and laugh

and hug

and smells come from the kitchen (tarte aux pommes?),

sounds from the piano

(the first notes of Beethoven’s sonata opus 14 number 2

singing

‘oh what a happy day’)

and it is safe

and beautiful

to be.

Bank holiday Monday 27 May 2024

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash