gardening

The Chelsea Flower Show Massacre

There was death amongst the daffodils
the day Fleur took her secateurs
and ran amok through the flock
of haughty culturalists in the Chelsea gardens
without so much as a beg your pardon.

Roses were red, violets were too,
ears were sheared, nosegays chopped,
toes trimmed and green fingers lopped,
as Fleur took the lawn into her own hands
and mowed them all down.

Even the failure of Lady Pru’s azalea bed
became overshadowed by the trail of dead
and the herbaceous borders
filled up with her slaughters.

There was carnage in the carnations,
annihilation amidst the anemones,
hysteria in the wisteria,
nastiness in the nasturtiums.

Nobody could remember
a flower show bloodier.

Someone had even been nipped
in the buddleia.

a forest, which grew

a trail of parsnips along the floor
was all it took to lure
the sons out of their caravan door

where mumford was, i wasn’t sure

bundling the sons out of my van,
i planted them in tubs of manure,
watered them daily,
played them the banjo
and ukulele,
and watched them grow
in the golden glow
of a late summer afternoon

gazed upon the long limbs
lazing up to an incipient moon,
the entangled bramble of beards immune
to the unforgiving snip
of the shears that prune

mighty sons of mumford,
fifty feet high,
stretching up into the pale night sky