The incredible show of blossom in West Park has been a constant source of pleasure on my recent, sunbathed, circuits as convalescent and eventually led to the following lines, written with one eye to a submission for Margaret Holbrook’s forthcoming collection, “Landscapes”. Once I had this poem on the computer screen, I remembered that, back in December, 2015, I’d written a quite different account of the park, one frothing over with metaphor. It’s called “Christmas Eva, Christmas Rhos” and can be found posted on the blog 3 years ago. My vocabulary palette of colours seems to have shrivelled and drooped post-op.!
Flames leap from the azalea’s burning bush,
whilst rhododendrons’ more subtle blooms
smoulder, pale alba, pink and red,
and hint at long forgotten, distant,
snow-capped Himalayan peaks,
The whites and purples of the crocuses are a memory
and the daffodils have brazened and blazed where now
their dead heads shrivel and droop, but it’s time for
pink blossom confetti to carpet the park’s paths,
tempting the dog walker and the toddler, the jogger
and the convalescent to scuff and shuffle a shoe
or scoop whole handfuls and hurl them skywards
to celebrate the marriage of the seasons.
And the fragrance, delicate, almond-tinged,
its source elusive, bathes our senses
just feet away from bustling, busy roads.
White clad bowlers launch their ovals across the pristine green
towards that target jack, half watched, half-ignored,
by clumps of youngsters, ice-cream cones a-drip.
Sumer is icumen in. Lhude sing cuccu.*.
*Mid-thirteenth century round, author unknown.