It's a sport — she said.
Don't plant it near the blue
it'll breed back.
She shrugged. It'll breed back
anyway, they always do.
One season wonders.
I put it in a splendid isolation
game and pink and different
not as leggy as the blue.
Next season there were some pinks
scruffy and thwarted, then
they were gone. I couldn't keep them.
But, as my son said —
Bees can fly over the house.
Down the line
one petal, small as a baby's toenail
in a thrusting vernacular of blue.
My new book Now You Shall Know from Five Islands Press is out
and we kicked our heels up at the launch at Collected Works in
February. What surprised me is the young members of the editorial
team seemed to quite take to my gardening poems in the last section
called - ... somehow urgent. And then I read this one at the Ron
Pretty Poetry Prize award night, and it went down quite well. In fact
I had discussions with several people about gardening in general
and forget-me-nots in particular. Of course I should have mentioned
in the poem the impudent way a forget-me-not will latch seeds onto
your socks in pursuit of its territorial imperatives.