Observed from my kitchen window, a full spry-spray:
A Buddleia. Grey-tongued beneath its nodding fronds, at first
An apparition, its panicles panning for yellow froths,
Then amassed its weirdly regal form in three months gone.
Less brute force than the Rhododendron’s furtive blues
Which suffocate with friendly hues
The village church’s lych-gate,
And all who enter the shades of where
It swiftly descends and suppresses there
Like an eagle in full flight, or the unfathomable octopus
Bound to bottomless seas its endless prey with baleful cries.
The Buddleia’s leaves sag and sigh like a dying dinosaurs belly –
A horticultural Sauropod.
When pruned a viscous lime-like
Jelly wept and seeped, its blood the blood of ages deep,
Long before Linnaeus tamed it in 1753.
And higher up, propagated fronds unfurl in pearls of
Sun-blanched yellow – Perpendicular to my oriel
Such vigorous, verdant stalks thrust themselves
Into the acidic soil like primordial tusks,
Or an Inuit harpoon traversing a celestial arc afar,
Far beneath my garden’s heart, then spins into a husk and barks.
Transmogrified, a leaf falls, turns into tar, its self-made myth
To tell, in centuries not yet heard of.
Hermes had a wreath of cymes, in purples and in lilacs.
These plumes fell too, and pollenated well
On all the heralds’ tombs: a quarry field, the abandoned school,
And those embankments just beyond the border
Where once time’s locomotive flew and triumphed,
Its empty carriages rattle still, while the Buddleias wave and usher.