The spiky plant at the heart of the display
It’s rigid blades of leaves, barely quivering in the wind,
have been said to have sliced off a mans fingers.
They are brown tipped dagger points 
And look as if they could have been dipped in blood.
There lies the pain at the heart of the matter
Surrounded by beautiful soft pinks dahlias.
Bursting out of their tight dark buds,
They open their bright yellow stamen to the bees.

Above and below, the vibrancy of the geraniums 
Deep velvet reds rising up and vivid pinks trailing down.
Nemesia and lobelia cover the ground.
And a single yellow golden anniversary rose hovers before the fading agapanthus mop heads.

A fish jumps, a dog barks 
And behind me the papery rustle of the fig
bearing its greatest yield to date.  
I only hope the squirrel doesn’t find them.

The giants of the scene, soaring high above, are conifers of all shapes and sizes. 
Fresh lime fingers of new growth tip the branches,
Highlighting the darker green of the older needles.
From these tallest of trees comes the contained beating of a pigeons wings.
It moves about within the broad interior,
Keeping an eye on the old lofts.

On the patch, the red and purple fuschia fairies dance among the fennel flowers.
As the variegated pulmonaria take root,
a prayer for the breathe of life,
And on the path, this years fragrant Chelsea rose 
puts forth a second showing of new buds.
Motionless the African crane stands guard in front of the pond,
joining me in my vigil.