Photography and Poetry Competition

OUR GARDEN
He tucks his arm in mine, and slowly,
but with practised ease, we stroll
into the summer evening's warmth.
Night scented stock wafts over us
soft as a lullaby. A damask rose
of dusky pink gives out a hint of musk.
I pick a half furled bud and pin it to his shirt.
You smell, I tease, just like my lady's boudoir.
He smiles at me, his young and playful wife.
And now the bramble hedge where berries plush
and ruby red wink in the setting sun.
He can remember jars of wine stained jelly,
the glint of amber cordial in a glass.
We brush against the lavender's bruise purple
spikes. He hears the honey bees,
I see the dancing butterflies.
The fragrance trails us to my plot of herbs
where cool green shades have left an imprint
on his lids, emerald and mint and leaf and sage.
He takes a long breath in, then gives a deep
contented sigh. They also love a garden
who lack the gift of sight.

Renee Rabot.