The Night Rain

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The night rain
Loads the morning foliage,
Hauls each stem down
With a sheen.

The damp leaves
Lick the air,
Exfoliating pungencies
And sap soaked humidity,

Hunkering in rich breath
Of the wood scent,
Releasing stomatal volatiles
And chlorophyll astringencies,

Tempered by the nectars
Of bedraggled flowers,
Lolling before the sunshine
Straightens them.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016

Symbiosis

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From dirt springs complexity
In the structure of flowers.
And to these
Come the elequance of bees,
Symbiotically bound
To the promiscuity
Of the plant’s future needs,
Yet self-serving on nectar’s
Seeping generosity
And suckling on plenty’s summer day
And its eternal rotations,
Both diurnal
And the season’s sleep
And interludes of wakefulness,
Through which the sun arouses
Generations of dormant seeds.
Copyright 2016 Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice

The Gardener’s Art

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He is brother to the painter
Though uses the green fingered touch
As brush stroke.
And his painting is pure transience
For no sooner
Has his intention
Made it to the page
Than the mother has her say
And brings her children
To cherished approximation,
No less perfect
Than the vision thought,
Imagined and sought
With the soil smudged hands.

And always the picture moves:
With bees sometimes
And sweet breezes
And lush imperceptible growth,
And butterflies on hot days
And of course
The season’s invariable work.

And each year
The page is pre-set
With innumerable ideas
But also blank for new,
And arrives as if it were the first
And not cyclic progeny
Of all time’s happenings
Manifesting in blooms
Among the foliage,
Provocative and colour flecked.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016

Metamorphosis

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I walk in to the garden
A man
In clothing and footsteps
And thought

And then as the banks
Of perennial leaf
Touch my check,
Reach to meet

My enquiring hand,
And as my eye,
Like foraging bee
Dips and inspects,

And my ears,
Drawn to perceive
The wood pigeons
Breathing symphonies.

And as my nose
Catches strands
Of scent upon the breeze,
I change

From the modern, disinterested man
To the lover
Of my brother the leaf
And my friends

The birds and insects,
Quick-winged under foliage
And shadow
And proud to own the branch

And scrump the flower heads.
And thus I become
The green thing,
Half man, half herb,

Wishing for the heady scents
Of earthen loam
And soil must
And coolness of the mother,

Where the flesh of my heart
Might be lain in a hollow
To absorb the deep nutrient
And feel the root of forever.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016