this orange-blossomed bush has tipped its colour onto the hollyhocks where they pool in the giant alien leaves like treasure

woken by a soft paw,
the smell of earth

Roshi balances precariously on the head of the garden Buddha, tail swishing, his eyes fixed on the hope of a small death

a new box! Roshi can't help himself & disappears.

by the time Brian finishes taking the orders for tea
Caroline is already bringing the first two cups in

looking round mum and dad's garden

recognising the plants we have ourselves
making note of the ones we want
all our looking stained by self

sprinkling words onto the page like seeds on the earth
which will grow roots?

a torn-off slice of tissue paper moon

from inside the chanting hall I watch them talking on the bench as they hold their cups of tea

the plants are so thirsty I can hear them thanking me

writing

next door's blooming apple tree
accompanies me between sentences

sangha

one person x love = love
seven people x love = big big love

turning the wheel on my webcam brings the wrinkles into focus

a fine continuous spray of email shatters me into fragments

the white slats of an empty chair
pegs on the line
apple-blossom
glowing as the evening drops

the first two poppies of the year, zingy reflective-jacket orange

too many too much
then, blackbird

the apple blossom is here!

next door's pegs through the drizzle: glossy commas of green, purple, cornflower blue

permission to take an hour in the garden - putting my book down, the garlic bed gets a good weed

californian poppies hang their buds, gathering energy for orange explosions

from 'Recipes for Self-Healing'

"Apple and chestnut are the bisexuals of the world of cooking...."

James is filming the bolted cabbage: the glory of greens & purples & blues. Mary writes at the table. Jo is out of sight with the pile of books she carried with her. In my book it says '.,.just as we are, this is crucial.' We are loved just like this - broken, failing, smiling at the world.

pretty thistle

a ruff of violet filaments

circling paler curves

and on its neck

spring green

with a splodge of white mixed through

who chose

these colours?

old sticks emerging from the new bank of earth
leaves like lizard-tongues
scarlet as chard
reflecting the bright top
of a toddler down the street

I can see him clapping

two rolls of dog shit
the circumference of a cigar
to write about them I had to get close enough
to smell their musty sourness