lavender

A Book Illustration

/ A. Gouedard / 1 Comment

Rebecca Troyer has illustrated one of my poems (the copyright is hers)

 

In the Fairy Garden by Rebecca Troyer

Isn’t that just lovely ! Here is the poem

The Faerie Garden 

 

Its windows blown by wind and rain,

down the lanes where no-one came,

an ancient ruined cottage stood

with tumbled walls, close by the wood.

 

The cottage garden growing wild

with warring flowers unreconciled

was all a tangle, intertwined,

with paths and borders undefined

 

Columbine closed up the doors,

Ivy crept across the floors.

The roses grew all over-blown

Claiming all the walls their own.

 

Delphiniums, for summer skies,

near the solemn peonies rise.

Hollyhock o’er-towers them all

and Jasmin scents the evenings fall.

 

In this riotous throng of flowers

the faeries come to spend their hours.

They crown themselves with daisy chains

as sunlight spreads its last remains.

 

As evening falls they make their way

with gentle steps at close of day

to the bed they much prefer

beneath the sleepy lavender.

 

The Faerie Garden

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

Its windows blown by wind and rain,
down the lanes where no-one came,
an ancient ruined cottage stood
with tumbled walls, close by the wood.

The cottage garden growing wild
with warring flowers unreconciled
was all a tangle, intertwined,
with paths and borders undefined

Columbine closed up the doors,
Ivy crept across the floors.
The roses grew all over-blown
Claiming all the walls their own.

Delphiniums, for summer skies,
near the solemn peonies rise.
Hollyhock o’er-towers them all
and Jasmin scents the evenings fall.

In this riotous throng of flowers
the faeries come to spend their hours.
They crown themselves with daisy chains
as sunlight spreads its last remains.

As evening falls they make their way
with gentle steps at close of day
to the bed they much prefer
beneath the sleepy lavender.

Miss Smith

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

in every story book I read
the wise old witch was her
with cheeks like polished apples red
and apron freshly pressed

she smelled of wholesome new baked bread
pickles, jams and herbs
she kept a feathered fleet of hens
beside the well-worn lane

her hat pulled firmly on her head
she wandered down there day and night
in her fathers tattered coat
and big black rubber boots

the neighbours thought her rather odd
but I knew she was kind and good
she gave me Homers Odyssey
and well-worn fairy tales

when I was grown I went back there
to knock upon her door again, no-one came,
no neighbours knew her by her name
the world was not the same

no scent of lavender survives
in ancient drawers of cedar lined
the stove is cold, the windows barred
by swathes of ivy, deep entwined

the hens have gone, no cockerels crow
the hinge hangs rusted on her gate
that leads out to the muddied road
deep rutted by forgotten wheels

the rooks have flown the distant trees
no magpies squawks in mockery
the nettles grow in clusters wild
defense against a vanished child