Jessie's Garden

The swing-seat’s still there;
I can hear you now –
chiding me for rocking it
whilst we sat, enjoying
the garden, and a glass
or two of Chardonnay...

The rain still pools
in droplets on the leaves
of the Alchemilla Mollis;
‘magic little one’...
the meaning of its name,
your signature plant.

The wind, half-heartedly,
wafts the stars around,
as the sky floats in streams
of gentian-blue; a sadness
in its sighs...

its breath, soft and low,
as it tells of much travelling,
and can scarcely stir the trees –
streaks of mares’ tails
shredded by the moon.

And in the stillness
of a dew-damp dawn,
the mocking of a bird;
a dog barks, far off,
and a church-bell rings...

Warm my hands inside
your coat – the green one
you wore for gardening,
and hidden in the lining,
a crumpled note...a poet’s
long-pocketed dreams.