There’s no excuse, I should have been gardening today. The weeds are shooting up through the gravel and the cat mint is threatening to capture the entire border but no, I couldn’t be bothered. Lassitude overcame me.

While fidgeting restlessly  in a deck chair something useful did at last happen…  A poem came to mind that I had written  about my Mother’s efforts in the garden. Here is it is…..and the asterisk are there because I can’t get the spaces between verses to work properly, not because they really should be! Any advice from anyone?


The back yard

at number seventy-five

faces North and

an unturned mangle

stands solid by the wall

while geraniums in haphazard pots

glow red on concrete.


The clothes pole frets the line

as pyjamas dance in sunlight,

and Mother hums and

tickles pots

of crumbling earth.

Her face glows red

like geraniums.


A child appears,

her smudgy, gingham dress

in tatters.

She stabs a  rusty trowel

in scattered earth.

Her face grows pink

like roses.


Long minutes pass

at night-time.

The child returns and trembles.

A ghost appears

with blackened fists

from crumbled earth.

Now Mother’s face is ashes.


Memories fade

like freckles.

They crack like upturned pots

beside a wall and

grown child seeps sorrow.

Sees mangle turn,

sees crumbling earth,

sees geraniums glow –

for Mother.

About rhymebydesign

Mother, grandmother, mainstream poet and short story writer. Started off in life as a teacher, but then moved out of the classroom in to educational administration. Curious about what makes people tick, including my own tickings! I enjoy long walks, thought provoking books, theatre and leading a simple life. I offer a customised poetry writing service for any occasion you might like to mark. Contact me at for a quick quote.

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