WEEDS

You stand, hands in pockets,
rocking to and fro on your heels,
an irritating stance nullified by familiarity,
and scrupulously survey the garden
eyes a-skitter but stalling now and then.

What now, I muse?
The poppies …
The poppies flick-flouncing their frilly French skirts
to the respiratory rhythm of the breeze.
You callously observe [cough, cough]
some stringent weeding is required.
As ever your tone is petulantly pompous
which you defensively define as tidy mind.

Now I’ll concede without reservation
that these humble poppies would not merit
even a miniscule footnote in the
Encyclopaedia of Garden Flowers
I’ll admit that they are wild, invasive
and horticulturally unplanned.
I confess, freely, that when compared
to these sly and slapdash invaders
the laid out lines of barely-budded
lilies will look lost and a little forlorn
when they come to reach full flower.
Yes, these poppies are weeds, I readily agree:
an impertinent assault on your
classificatory comfort-blanket.

Weeds they are, most certainly –
enduring, tenacious,
intrusive and generously fecund.
Weeds, which at the glorious crown of the day,
the purple twilight, glow neon-bright
tart yellow and sweet orange,
earth-bound nova endlessly renewed.
They caress my sleeping senses,
gladden my hardened heart.
I will ever cultivate and cherish
these wayward wandering waifs.

You listen, grunt, and recommend
a virulent vicious herbicide.

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Cover picture: http://www.flickr.com/photos/7911705@N07/2253869788/

Planning, order has its place - though I'll always cherish people and experiences which break the rules.

Serendipity is my friend.