ISO-GARDENING [PART 2] Snip, snip at the rosemary with the slightly blunted secateurs– sharpening’s another item to add to that lengthening list. Dead twigs of rosemary mingle with hopeful bursts of green, blue flowers still a-bud. Its perfume’s given us

ISO-GARDENING

[PART 2]

Snip, snip at the rosemary
with the slightly blunted secateurs–
sharpening’s another item
to add to that lengthening list.

Dead twigs of rosemary mingle
with hopeful bursts of green,
blue flowers still a-bud.
Its perfume’s given us
many a fragrant roast,
many a wake-up tea.
It’s been picked for hasty posies,
and always, always means remembrance.

My parents hover behind one shoulder,
Ophelia trails her sighs behind the other.
There. Our woody rosemary’s lighter now.

I sit at a bench to refine the cuttings:
these to strip and dry the leaves for cooking,
those for a posy that might grow roots for striking,
these splendid ones to strike in soil today.

Out of the lopping, I reassure the parent plant,
will come new plants. Life will go on.
And a sudden gust of autumn wind
sweeps my hopeful piles to the ground.

I pick them up again.
No use moaning. The cuttings and I
regard each other for a moment.
Yep, I tell them silently.
We’re all in this together.

The old bush regards me
with a tolerant eye.
We’ll see, it seems to say. We’ll see.

My phone alarm nudges me
towards my writing desk.
Oh yes, we’ll see. Together.