The tenderness of cuttings

The tenderness of cuttings 

There are days and days for wondering 
stretched ahead 
no end it seems in sight. 
Don’t try to specify 
the what or when or why
August perhaps? Or autumn, winter 
turning of the year? 
All dates and plans suspended, poised, un-diaried
peer though we might, not visible. 
And so it is the rose in bud
or last year’s geraniums pink as pink 
trailing in torrents abundant 
and yesterday’s treasure, lacy and cream
all over elderflower spread 
or ten minutes still and listening 
Is that the nightingale’s song?
The tenderness of cuttings, lavender and sage 
undrooped, 
and climbing beans, climbing 
tomatoes too up steely stakes
curling, installation art. 

And glad I am for poetry
for art in all its forms 
for somewhere to go when I’m wondering 
no end it seems in sight 
for a plan to place those pebbles 
round in a Fibonacci swirl
to dwell on the swoosh of the sea 
millenia, smoothing and soothing 
Beauty brimming  everywhere, priceless
and everywhere offered free. 

25th May 2020 Hounoux