A poet’s garden
They come bearing gifts
homespun
apple pie
brown bread
bottles of Cabernet Sauvignon
clippings from manicured gardens
friendly cleaning products
Roger McGough’s life story.
Most of all
they come
bearing poems.
White stick in hand,
like reformed smokers,
they chalk up lines
on blue roof tiles
sunk in sand
behind clumps
of granite rocks
and meadow grass
that quiver in the
low
warm
breath
of a summer’s night.
I picture their white words
before rain
wipes the slate
clean.
Carol Boland
