Riverhill, June 2015
There is no river
at Riverhill, the name comes
from Saxon: ‘rither’.
Listen to jackdaws
chip at the edge of the breeze
I am no gardener
and yet I love a garden
which rises and loves.
Please Shut the Gate
Open your mind and let the words flow, like water, like breeze, like bees from flower to flower.
Stop once in a while to taste nectar and drink in fragrant morning scent.
Break down walls of daily life to find those private thoughts of yours and mine to listen to the garden as you keep to the gravel paths. Longing to break free from rules, delight in rabbits who cannot read but leave their calling cards written in a code of Hansel and Gretel droppings across worn banks.
Ladies called Rose walk into a secret world of dens amidst Himalayan Rhododendrons back into a childhood before flowers became spelling tests.
Sit on twisted trunks gaze upwards whilst climbing trees with adult shoes to balance words.
Old tiles stacked near the Car Park are nature’s bookcase etched with lichen script.
Gardens filled with nodding Alliums, a remedy to soothe the soul with purple heads of full stops in proliferation. Listen to nature’s placebo for modern life with its soundtrack of summer mistletoe accompanied by kissing bees.
All photos copyright of Caroline Auckland
(Remembering the Victorian gardeners)
I arrive as sun stakes her claim
on the top panes − light hangs low −
a pearly thread woven through cloud.
Imagine the frame’s wooden bones creak
with old age, prop themselves up
like shoulder blades loosed from skin,
each beam rasps for the memory
of gardeners long gone.
I hear earth split, spread rumours
about pollen, spit seeds from clumps
of mud unlacing palm leaves
with a single flick of its tongue.