Monday, August 27, 2007


I wrote this about my stay up at Drum, where we worked to prepare the walled rose garden for its annual open day.

Garden Open, Two Till Four

Dead-heading roses in a garden
of a thousand thousand blooms.
The intense scent evoking perfect
summer lawns spread with jam,
clotted cream and the strewn
pot pourri of stiff suburban teas.

Cutting away countless buds steamed
shut, mummified, by weeks and weeks
of wet. Plucking out the blown before
they can develop big fat hips.

Ordering chaos, playing God, so those
who pay to take pleasure in this place
need never know the dark arts
of our green-fingered sleight-of-hand.


Blogger PI said...

'stiff suburban teas -'pass the fish knives Norman!'
Thia appeals to ALL the senses. I love it! What a little gem!

11:46 am  
Blogger Verilion said...

'Dark arts' hey? What haven't you mentioned in the poem. I'm sure the garden is gorgeous.

3:45 pm  
Blogger Lucy said...

I think it was quite dark already,with 'buds steamed shut, mummified...'. And I like how they aren't allowed to develop big fat hips!

6:14 am  
Blogger apprentice said...

Thanks all. Yes I thought it was quite dark, all that chopping off of young failed buds and plucking out the middle aged lol!

It's a fabulous place divided into quadrants with 16th, 17th, 18th and 19th century roses.

11:05 am  
Blogger Cailleach said...

I love the 'hips' image too Apprentice - nice piece.

11:27 pm  

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