From a meadowsweet mouth...

From a meadowsweet mouth a spill of promises…

Old soldiers are mustering at my borders,
muttering fork tongued manoeuvres, brandishing
their certainties in my direction.
But I tell you now,
there will be no war on my land.
No frowning lines will mark my soil,
the only horizontals here will be the laying down
of deep earthy browns into winter's waiting arms.
No shining steel will dare to slice
the nestling nematodes that nurture
any tiny web of roots to growth.

Instead, there will be promises of blue, a lush of layered greens, a kiss of red.
White frothing sweeps of lacewing petticoats, and tangy garlanding of herbs.
Here there will be, for a soft eye,
only gentle, sweeping curves.
A graceful willowing for the sweet and the green, an open invitation
to any wing and generous leavings for the carapace ones.
From here, we will understand the patience of rain, smell the sighing mist,
find the languorous, full bellied fruition of a September Sunday.
Summer shouts, as loud as sunflowers, will rise above the dreary, daily bending,
for I will practise the soft art of fruiting fresh breezes and billowing beds
and I will stitch myself a capacious apron for the gathering in,
after
I spit the seeds from the mouth of Eve
and sow a song of heaven right here,
in this garden of a life.