I could look at them all day,
upright Spanish bluebells
challenging the spring rain,
holding their place,
side by side with
dandelions and daisies.
We call it the meadow,
this overgrown patch
in a long rectangle of
north-facing green,
enclosed by ninety feet
of old wooden fence.
Out front,
buses lurch by,
sirens scream
and some disease –
despite hours of us
bending and clipping
and spraying –
destroys the hedges.
But in the back,
purple tulips tilt
towards the ground,
clematis climbs the ash tree
and tall bluebells
sway a little in the
April winds,
taking the strain,
no tending needed.
