A summer evening's garden

 

This is... A summer evening's garden

A fox in twilight on summer evening prowl.

Moving like a half-light memory I have winding

In an evening summer garden.

Under art nouveau leaves.

Brushing through angel feather willow trees.

And palette popping colour petals.

Rows of can-can skirt dancers.

Embrace of tight go-go-dancers.

Peacocking barroom romancers.

Sliding oil bubbles floating across and bursting like

Prism tear drops scattered.

And compound fractures.

The apple white flesh of a living branch half-snapped

Skin holding on, sinews bent but intact.

Chlorophyl keeps photosynthesising.

You say it's nature but I say it's misery.

Where I lie still as the fox steps over me with its kill.

Nylon flowers

 

This is... Nylon Flowers

Nothing blossoms in this garden.

It's without a cradle into the clouds' bosom.

Lacks lightness of being sparkling above water surface tension.

Under the weight of this dense earth forces evolution.

Stems of wire.

Lace bowed into posed leaves.

Nylon flowers.

So yet we bloom, of course, of sorts.