The young Labrador falls asleep
Effortlessly in tufts of angel tears and fern,
The old is buried beneath the rosemary.
This is the season: a bramble of eczema
and crackling tomato vines.
The last of their golden fruit
The gardener plucks
and rolls over her tongue, teasing
At resilience. She crushes each
against the roof of her mouth
like broodings of discontent. A quick end
to the cloister of February: her only hope.
About the Creator
Sean
A lover of soft cheese and delayed gratification. I prefer plants to people, more often than not. Dirt is my medicine and filth a form of therapy. Most of these words should find a home among compost but hey, at least I'm still writing.
Comments (1)
I really like the tone of your poems.