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Garden Bother and Gnomes

PostPosted: Tue Nov 22, 2011 1:24 pm
by titian dj
I expose the old clay pots in mimulus borders.
Their patterns are arty-crafty with an Avant-Garde
sway. Three rest on their sides clothed in skirts
of moss, inviting tits and finches to line and dress
this year's nests. Two pots are settled, planted and firm,
up-side-down with terracotta bottoms trapping
today’s spring lumes and showers.

My boy, Jack, buys two red gnomes from the Pound Shop
and asks if he can place them on the pot next to my
iron bench. I can’t hack garden gnomes. I baulk at their
poise and pointless presence, and would rather chew
green offal napped with sieved spawn than suffer
the idiocy of gnomes, pixies and bloody leprathingies.

'On that pot there, Dad.'

'Great idea,' I said.

They still stand together, weathered and washed,
unaffected by curious squirrels, unaware of the scratching
robins and empty fox. Jack forgets to visi, doesn’t remember
where the old boys huddle throughout the fickle seasons.
I’ll clean or remove them one day, perhaps repaint their hat's,
red jackets and yellow woolly waistcoats, I suppose ... maybe.