I took my ageing body and grieving soul to the garden today,

sure to find some solace in its springtime hope.

But mirrored here is all.

There hanging, abundant and strong are my most poisonous mistletoe thoughts.

They cling tightly around the heart of the beauteous apple

as her blossoms of promise fall like cold winter,

mercilessly shaken by feathered visitors invading her ancient arms.

Across the lawn, so carefully grown, dandelions sneer their superiority

announcing my weedy habits of too much and too little.

Pots lay abandoned and ugly, full of last year’s feeble attempts at colour.

The hedge we planted, untamed and untameable has grown uneven,

unwanted gaps reveal the field behind

where the sun is playing on the horses’ backs.

The sun is playing on the horses’ backs.

I see it through the gaps,

across the heads of the audacious dandelions,

amidst the confetti blossom

and the riot of shameless, uncultivated colour.

The sun is playing on the horses’ backs.

And for a moment my sore-hearted soul is riding bare-back

with only the sun for a saddle.