Garden Sketch by Dave Green
Through the winter dark when frost bit,
and the ground was iron-hard,
when the guns cracked and dogs snarled,
and spades dug deep to earth and sett,
I clenched my fists in anger.
Through the winter dark ,
beneath the tree before the house,
the tree festooned with bird food,
I left gifts for the others, the pariahs,
bread, fruit, nuts, cheese, a bowl of biscuit,
and the tracks to the tree from hedge and stream,
the paths through the meadow were plain to see.
And now on the brink of summer,
they still come and wait in the dusk,
fox with unblinking eyes,
badger beneath the poplars by the stream,
marten in the hornbeam.
I see them later when I have closed the door,
sometimes before, fearless,
accepting the small gift,
the poor payment for persecution.
Strange how it fills the heart full
to watch a beech marten
struggling to master an apple
bigger than its own head.
Bios and Links
lives and works in Sheffield. For 30 years he worked in education with vulnerable and neurodiverse children before belatedly discovering that recent governments may not be prioritizing the marginalized in society. Now he trains people in positive mental health and how to recover from the pandemic. He writes poems, paints, chops logs, cycles everywhere and shops local.