An English garden, circa 1950
Well, Traumaville is having to close for the season, and you will have to put up with poetry and lyrics and fragments for now. You'll get over it. So, here's The Garden With Gaps in the Fence.
Wind chimes and small bells and sedge-grass.
A garden with gaps in the fence.
The boards from a never-used coffin
Keep the dogs out that have any sense.
The wind doesn’t blow here.
It’s too scared to show here.
The garden has gaps in the fence.
Coriander and rusted old wrenches.
A brass hare hangs over the door.
Rotted wood from some old garden benches.
Molasses spilled right on the floor.
The garden-swing squeaks.
The rocking-chair creaks.
And the garden has gaps in the fence.
There is silt in the ill-bevelled gutters.
Iguanas leave tracks in the dirt.
The cracking paint floats from the shutters.
A new coat of paint wouldn’t hurt.
There are spider-webs, son,
With the spiders long gone,
For the garden has gaps in the fence.
Wherever you set up your homestead,
Wherever your kids get to play.
Make sure that the stanchions are grounded,
And the earth is more root-soil than clay.
But be still as a mouse,
And don’t buy that house,
If the garden has gaps in the fence.