Garden Angel

Garden angel

A connoisseur of the formally informal handshake,
Usually I gloss, grip and release,
Quick eyecatch, then it’s business as usual.

Chronic avoider of the most distracted kind,
Often missing names first-off,
I normally duck and dive,
But the day I  meet you,
Something shifting and warm
Under your twinkle moves,
A quiet laughter, gentle, amused,
And I understand gay,
Though I'm as straight as Nelson's column,
And I laugh too,
Just for the sheer joy of the morning,

And as the twins respectfully watch the upended lawnmower being coaxed
back to health,
We all find a graceful ease from your mystical, faraway Lake Malawi
Overcome the household,
Birdsong somehow more audible,
The light, different?

Even the lady of the house
Has a kind word to say
about your way with weeds
And, cynic that I am,
I find myself humming,
thoughtfully, almost consciously
'And did those feet, in ancient times...'

 

Digging

Digging

Of all of the passionate poets
Who ever engaged, held, or released me
(Go on!)
In 40 years of intelligent adulthood
(Theatrically lights ciggy, ignoring looks)
The winner is an Irishwoman
Who engaged me with
(Blows smoke ring)
excitement, intrigue, interest
(Exhales ecstatically into space),
So I choose to replay a broadcast
Of my teenage experience
Of a lazy lilting lass
(Stubs it out and eyes reader thoughtfully)
On the edge of losing it forever,
As her deeper delving
Delivered me from my dull lonepain,
Picking me up on an
Unstoppable wave of ideas and associations  as
(Faraway look)
Her canny Celtic clevers carried me into
A universe of undulating understandings,
(Naughty blue-eyed smile)
This gift that would govern every poem or person
I would ever truly enjoy -

That longago catchup conversation with my Mother.