Garden Poem, by Robert Adamson for Juno Sunlight scatters wild bees across a blanket of flowering lavender. The garden grows, visibly, in one morning— native grasses push up, tough and lovely as your angel’s trumpets. At midday the weather, with bushfire breath, walks about talking to itself. A paper wasp zooms above smooth river pebbles. In the trees possums lie flat on leafy branches to cool off, the cats notice, then fall back to sleep. This day has taken our lives to arrive. Afternoon swings open, although the mechanics of the sun require the moon’s white oil. Daylight fades to twilight streaking bottlebrush flowers with shade; a breeze clatters in the green bamboo and shakes its lank hair. At dinnertime, the French doors present us with a slice of night, shining clear— a Naples-yellow moon outlines the ridges of the mountains—all this, neatly laid out on the dining room table across patches of moonlight. Share this:EmailPrintFacebookTwitterPinterestTumblrRedditPocketLike Loading...