There is no air sweeter
Than in May’s cascade
Of colour, billowing
With purple ether
And the lightest elements
That plants might contrive.
Their sexual expression
In fragrant perfection
And tiers of pale lilac
Flowers given
Is the real ‘who’
Of who they really are.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
To the garden I go,
To pace the concrete path
Bordered by greenery.
I examine the bud, then the tender
Shoot delicate in its unfold, changing
Each day imesaursbly. I witness the
Plant beings flush under the sun, their
Greenness quivering, their buoyancy
Mesmerised to reach for the high
Happy sky.
I step away for but a spell and to my
Returning astonishment I find a new
Garden, in place of the wonder I had
Left, yet more richly itself and bolder
In its expansive space.
The air too I breathe and find thankful
To my lungs, for the garden’s world is
Richly textual, a sensation in to which
I too unfold, as if all my wanting
Dreams of elsewhere heavens had
Been called home and yoked to the
Simple matter of a flower’s beautiful
Event.
In to the tentative spring
encroach magnolia flowers.
Some new, the nibs of fine pens
poised to inscribe heaven sent
possibilities.
Some full, festooning the leafless
branches as if a flock of glossy birds
had taken brief and perfect rest-bite.
Some old, their floppy bodies without
will to hold beyond a falling stars
burst and thrust and flair
in to momentary being.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Risen early with spring dawn;
Light is at the perfect golden angle
And the air is newly formed.
Footsteps on the cool, dew touched
Lawn and ears filled with bird chatter
And twittering: a wood pigeon cooing
With sweetening purr.
Where the sun has made a glade
Among buddlia foliage a hover fly
Alights a leaf and basks for a delicate
Moment: then again to the
Shimmering air.
God is near
Not in the far flung heavens.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
I’ve been living in the cave of winter
and only knew it fully when spring’s
pulse flushed first in snowdrops and
buds bulging on the stems.
I’m awakened to the ground rush,
natures upsurge and levity behind
each tender shoot: the whole earth
intent to leaf and reclined to the
photon sun, its matter poured
eternally.
Like this my new garden arrives to my
eyes: a new flower gift each day, the
unexpected brought on spring wave
as herbaceous kind are called and
charmed, powerless on the tendril
energy.
With the scent of first flowers and
the colour of first butterflies, and first
bumble bees quick on the first sun
blasts, I realise the spring and wake
once more, as creatures wake from
their hibernation. All of us drawn from
the darkness to the light, new
warmness, the air crisp and perfect
as the very first beginning.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
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