Hydrangea Blues

Like a riot of careless children,
the hydrangeas return to my garden.
They love the violence of the wind,
they dare it to unfurl them from the stamen,
to become a sail of pure disarrangement.
Audacious,
they out-do the infinite hues of the sky,
they out-sing the clouds.
And they are beautiful and full of hungers,
and they have forgotten the agony
of last summer’s drought.
And I am in love with their petulant hearts.

In a Chinese Garden

Finally, the erasing hour of the rain.
The garden lost behind a paper screen,
and what returns is never the same.
I have known a vast, bright, burning summer,
reduced to the silence of the listening stones.
The rain thrusts me
into these corners of solitude with a grey palm.
But see how the hydrangeas remain,
and rise like a rebellion of scent and colour,
from the darkened pond.
Blue, through folds of purple, to breathless pink,
they climb, until there is no colour at all,
only this defiant song of insects
that not even the rain could wash away.
For there is nothing in these flowers that
grows despondent, as we sometimes do,
and accepts the finality of water.
Like a breath of infinite pigment,
they leap and dive
in circles of unquenchable joy
without decay,
to the very edge of the garden wall.

White Cat in the Garden

It seems everything wants to disappear
in your white clouds of cumulus fur.
Even the early summer sky
is tamed to something smooth and un-reflecting.
What doesn’t plunge in
and never reemerge to this place of
unreal divisions?

And we know that the day can only begin
once it has passed through
the terraces of these arcane eyes.
Whether it rises like a garden
full of dreams or prey,
or falls beneath a shadow of roots,
depends on the way you will
flick your listless tail
in the moment of your rising.

White cat in the garden,
is it that this hydrangea path,
like all things we are surprised
to chance upon, springs from you,
in this long hour of the fierce guardian statues?