Since we let this garden start the Tallowwood
and Blackbutt have spurted ingenious growth,
Scarlet Jezebels scud their branches, small white
spinners snapping attention. The King Parrots have
taken their poster-paint greens and reds elsewhere.
A garden reeking of biodiversity, feathered with abundant
leaves and untidy in-betweens and plenty of natives
must be a good thing. Lemons and limes are dropping,
oranges are almost ripe. What more can we do,
now that the natural is out of the question?
The sea thundered decibels before dawn, has quietened
perhaps birdsong has elevated the ambient sound.
I’m exhausted after ten minute’s weeding, Covid is messing
with my body, a life form (debatable) hidden, invisible
from any eye, even an eagle’s, apart from a god’s.
First day misted by the scent of smoke, autumn is turning
towards winter, I’m warming my skin, an invisible breeze
chills the hot light. A few bees collecting Tarragon keep
an honest work ethic going, excellent workers
but nakedness is the only truth innocence believes.