© Christoffer Petersen, 2022
I binged the news and
Ran out of things to write,
So I escaped to the garden.
The mouse beneath the planks,
Salvaged from the playhouse, scampered
Under the pile of dressed granite rocks,
While I stacked the wood,
Putting the good pieces to one side
For raised beds and bird boxes.
I thought about boxes for bats,
Remembering the little fellow who
Clung to the wall, low, between the tulips,
But bats are a no-go
In these pandemic times,
Another species in human crosshairs.
I took my dead mother-in-law’s garden
Chair, placed it by the iron tracks,
Looking back at the future orchard.
Every bush needs berries, every
Tree will need fruit as
Nothing must grow to waste.
I’ll start small – remove the fence and
Plant the trees – apples and pears,
In the shade of the big cherry.
If I trim the branches, keep them
Low, then we’ll both be able to pick the fruit –
My wife and I, bent beneath future rays of sun.