A little front garden, bounded by a curved stone wall

on the corner of a lonning.

A little garden from where its custodians can see

the derelict farmhouse and know its history,

the Solway Firth, blood orange sunsets.

Where we buried a Border Collie one evening

in a travelling trunk, with grave goods

befitting a Cumbrian king.

A front garden alive with social butterflies,

with song and buzz and bumble.

A garden that tells you who its people are.

*

One day, someone might pave this little front garden over

for a motor car.

We might find ourselves wandering in another garden,

wondering how this one is faring.

Remembering the year the wall belonged

to the wee red stoat.

All those summers we couldn’t resist burying our noses

in the magenta rose.

Oh! that chap who couldn’t bear

that we let creeping buttercup creep.

*

A little front garden.

A little garden.

A front garden.

A garden.

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