With Cockleshells, Like Mary Poem by Jacqui Thewless

An occult garden grows from the house on this hill,
where I have played with cockleshells, like Mary;
openly visible in winter, disappearing when the trees'
foliage spreads. From the sky, in some Julys
you might glimpse holy bees and butterflies
on buddleias and me, meandering, like you through a gallery
extending through doors of privet or
ash or a metal frame for morning glory
or a scented rose's gorgeous exhibit
that comes, shows and
goes in secret season.