The cat sits on the garden wall
and slowly licks his paw
there are things rusting in the garden,
some to do with ships.
Here on the wolf-grey zig zag hill
a rowan explodes with berries.
Behind the gribbly door
paint peeling world map,
closed as a damp book
an arch of brick,
birthday-cake pink
John Jenkins came back.
He never did the garden, and now
he looks out over a sea of green
that covers all the rusting things
that had to do with ships
Lovely imagery and poignant enough to paint a picture of this garden in my mind. Really wonderful poem, thank you for sharing it. RoseAnn
Tthank you so much, Roseann, I am just beginning to transfer a body of work onto this site. I'm saddened at the loss to us of David Bowie...I'm alive and we'll and I live in Barry which is just south of Cardiff on the Bristol Channel...Have to go now, will look out for your work later
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Thank you for reading this in John's fureral today. Ian F