Sanctuary

I planted my garden in the spring,
foxglove and lupin
that blossomed lavender and mauve,
daisies, dahlias and mums
that flowered yellow, purple and puce.

Marigolds grew golden pompoms
and ancient roses climbed the walls,
blood red, sunset orange and lipstick pink,
iridescent nicotiana mixed a heady fragrance
with petunias and the magnolia's intoxicating musk.

Abundant fruit ripened on the old pear tree,
leaves fluttering
gold, yellow gold, green, brown, green gold
in the sun.

Busy Lizzie blushed crimson in the borders
Mind Your Own Business spreading lime green at their edge,
hydrangea swallowed the lawn
and spider webs glistened,
reeds
burnt bronze in early evening light
waving beneath the trees,
as though this cultivated sanctuary grew wild,
a country vale outside my kitchen door.

It was not nature though that flourished here
but picnics on the lawn and dinners at the garden table,
kisses in the moonlight and romance,
long lazy afternoons with lovers who came and went,
laughter and conversation with friends who did the same.

The summer garden dies
and spring feels such a long way off,
like the flowers that blossomed in the season’s passing warmth,
friends and lovers wither and have fallen from their stalks.

But now the autumn harvest and all that I have learned,
how neediness breeds loss
and illusion despair,
how self esteem ignored yields a loathing in the soul,
how I sabotage what I sow.

Starlings devour the autumnal pears
and I am left empty handed.
Nature’s way or mine
to loose the fruit of this year’s growth?

No but neither,
for I am stronger now,
though lonely still
less lonely than I was before I loved my summer loves,
for losing them I find myself
and plant my winter garden here.

The kitchen door stays open,
sanctuary has taken root within.