Beth Chatto's Garden Poem by Martin Ward

Beth Chatto's Garden

I should have painted
my words plein air,
but was captured
by the moment,
as the damselflies
flew free.
Wedding Cake Tree:
Cornus Controversa
'Veriagata' lacy veils
the crystal waters.
We too, meandering
the rills that thrill
like Monet's Garden.
Quintessential English
loveliness, imported
from some foreign clime.
Hot gardens
of brazen hussies
basking amongst
the boiling pebbles.
I brushed past thyme:
it captured me,
but me not it, that
Mediterranean maiden,
baking beneath
Suffolk skies.
Island beds,
erupting from
an emerald sea
of tranquillity
and Vesuvian thrills
in equal measure.
At each turn,
fresh vistas
of human
perspective,
where woodland walks
dwarf Redwood trails.
Not Arcadia:
better than that.
The Artist
has painted here,
upon a fruit farm canvass;
with impish impasto,
framed by nature,
though never tamed.