Poetry

The Garden is a Spacecraft
 

the garden is a spacecraft

landed in a whirl of flashing

orange     pink      yellow     shining green

between rows of possibilities

beside rows of snaking, shuddering vehicles going

nowhere and

everywhere

where bees settle to drink from purple

haze of lavender and the euphorbia is

iridescent in its limeness

 

orange nasturtiums have broken loose

tumble now across the rhododendron skyward then

earthward to conquer new lands

 

the tall thin tree with no name that was almost

at the powerline  abandoned now where it was cut

unsure where to step next and shouting at the sky

 

ice daisies from a shore suburb are launching

their deep crimson takeover at the edge of the

universe and a shot pink blowsy peony shakes its

petals over its companions

 

the miscanthus grass is levitating

reaching up so fast the view of the almond coloured

vireya will be hidden from view

 

next door Mutabilis is fooling the world

blush pink    cream     magenta rose     tangerine

mixing it up all over

painting the sky

 

tucked behind the magnolia an echium begins its princely

rise to kingdom’s head where it will dwarf  most else

and keep the late summer bees in endless nectar

 

leafing all over is the baby willow

honouring the old stump that was its predecessor

caught by the big dry two summers back and

now turned into bowls

 

a black compost bin languishes beneath the rhododendron

feeding the local rodents who enter and exit through a

latticework of tunnels

 

yesterday a rainbow knocked at the door

It was too wide to fit through the doorway so I

 

stood their uncomfortably wondering how to

offer it tea under the verandah

not speaking it just smiled and lifted itself up higher

sheltering from the afternoon sea breeze in the branches of the

ornamental plum up close to the powerlines

the calendulas took  on a fiery glow more

orange than orange

 

echium spikes turned ultramarine and the euphorbia

wove itself into a cushion of gold and lime cross stitch

i stood in the doorway transfixed

unsure if I too would be transformed if I ventured into the

world of the rainbow and if that would be okay

it rained then

cold drops from a blue sky

how can that be?

and as quickly as it came the rainbow took off taking its paintbox

 

There is a time in the early evening when the

light on the willow and the rows of vines across the road

are so golden you want to catch it in

buckets and keep it for when the skies are dark

the light has its own sound

drowns out the traffic and owns the

plains that stretch out from the house toward

distant hills

it hangs in the air so lightly

the moment so brief there is not time to

find the camera

demanding all your attention there is nothing to do but

be in it peach    

                               salmon pink    

                                                              fiery red    

                                                                                    back to blue

 

You planted the magnolia five years ago

it came in a box from the north island with a label that

has gone now so you don’t know

what it is

for five years it has done nothing but sit solid

sometimes you are not sure if it was even breathing

no leaves until now the fifth spring

perhaps it was just finding its feet

showing an interest in its surroundings you

clean around its feet to

give it encouragement

you bought it for your mother who is now dead

she is always in the garden

particularly in the blue ixia that raises itself from the

tub under the verandah each october

you bought it because it was blue and your mother

loved blue

so much it inhabited hern

                                                         clothes

                                                                             rooms

                                                                                                      furniture

 

The verandah is overflowing with

remnants of winter

big black tubs that last year held the

winding beans from crete with

pale ochre shells

wait now for emilia  

                                            bishop’s flower

                                                                               dianthus

purple sweet peas have a head start

cascade over blue lobelias that seems

to live through every season

                                                           forever

the bath tub from france is glowing still with

pansies  purple    

                                 burgundy  

                                                            Yellow

a scarlet geranium is front of house

snging the loudest

next to the tub of plump limes

 

the garden is a spacecraft

twirling in rainbows


The Artist

Today I dreamed I was back on the ocean at the
bottom of the world
on water not the shade of childhood pictures or pacific reefs but
Emerald and Viridian mashed together
squelching Black at the creases of
wild whirling pools as bow dives deep and
foam rips the surface
a hundred spinning cartwheels a minute
I hear you
feel you
heaving cauldron of water and ice
breath catches
threatens to peel skin raw
I carry my brushes close
winged salute to raw unencumbered space
no room for anything out here but what is
Sometimes
in thick melting treacle of dark
a tinge of gold where my
heart beats hopeful toward the horizon and
all the way
home.

By Adrienne Matthews in honour of Sean Garwood’s Antarctica Exhibition,
The Arts Centre, Christchurch. October 6 – 9 2017