The clovers gather, pink and portly;
tubas, perhaps, or double-bass; top-heavy;
the sooty plantain heads punch up towards the light,
their eager drumsticks poised and ready;
sun-polished buttercups, the shaking brass, draw breath,
expectant
as the shy, wild flutings of the tangled vetch fall quiet,
fade
into the dying murmuring of strings
and creeping green,
the cadences of summer tuning up;
moon-daisies sway in their crisply ruffled dress shirts;
white;
waiting...
He comes.
The breeze whirls in from the wings of the sky,
bows low before the ripple of applause,
twirls back his tails
and, lifting up his baton, looses on the world
a flowing harmony of flowers,
a surging symphony of joy.
(June, 1983)
Note: Written
when the Valley Poets were asked to provide readings for an afternoon of music
in a delightful country garden in Worcestershire.