I love poetry. There are no linguistic rules. No grammatical ordinance. Sometimes the meaning is clear and relevant, at other times the symbolism is harder to understand as the poet has assigned a private meaning to the words.
Poets I especially admire are Walt Whitman,Pablo Neruda, Alfred Austin and TS Eliot.Their words mean something to me.
Every time I plant Red Poem I can almost hear Alfred Austin's words ringing in my ear: "Show me your garden and I will tell you what you are." I think he's right. Gardens are a reflection of the people that grow them. They can echo simplicity, a spirit of generosity or shady corners of peace.
I've always thought of my garden as an experiment but a few days ago my six year old niece, Gemma made me feel like it was an experience. Something to be savoured.
She was fascinated by the red wrigglers that feed on the waste in my worm farms - squeamishly squealing when I put a few on her outstretched hand.
She peeled back the papery thin husks (covers as she described them) of Cape Gooseberry's and ate the sweet fruit, she pulled up sweet potatoes and washed away the soil under the garden tap, she ran around with Oscar charging in pursuit and laughed when he slobbered all over her.
She did one handed cartwheels on the grass, which has taken a beating from the frost - I could almost see new shoots appear at her exuberance.
She tasted the rocket, thyme, rosemary and coriander.
She picked lemons and white iceberg roses and placed them in tiny glass jars.
Her obvious joy made me look at my garden with new eyes. It has character.
Brown and agile child, the sun which forms the fruit
And ripens the grain and twists the seaweed
Has made your happy body and your luminous eyes
And given your mouth the smile of water.