Sunday mornings, in gardens
EM Forster would have worried that these are days for getting smuts in your eye.
Or, more likely, losing dahlias in bloom to the gusting wind.
It is terrible, this havoc among the flowers, and,
Right enough, the Ox-eye Daisies are being tossed about wildly;
A brave little clump of yellow Poppies are nodding away, in their hide among the Thyme;
Rogue Sycamores, peeking up beyond the Beech hedge, have big-handed leaves, waving frantically.
On either side of the valley the regimented Pines seem hardly to move,
But the rushing sound of the wind ploughing through them is huge.
Massive black clouds loom over the garden, as barrage balloons might,
Cutting off the warmth, obscuring the late July sunlight.
Someone’s hammering away down at the sheds, fixing loosened tiles,
And the Swallows and House Martins have been grounded from their gliding flight.
Sitting in the corner here, on the old garden bench, with blistering paint,
A suggestion of rain falls across the page, my face, and I wonder
What the end of things will be – I squint up, at you, reading too,
And notice the white tea towel flapping beyond us, on the fence;
Its little black map of these islands,
Copyright © Andrew Hunter 2017
I live and work in Glasgow and have been writing all my life. I continue to learn from everyone I hear and read and I hope their good influence comes out in what I produce.