Why waste time

Why waste time

With worry over weeds.

When they grow so freely

Without need for help

Or interference.

Pushing through shingle

With impunity.

Twisting between broken pots

With forget-me-not

Expressions.

Clambering brazenly

Over the bones of an old shed.

Creeping at almost a mile a minute

Russian vine demands equality

With social climbing ivy,

Denouncing the greed of

The passion flower

As a gaudy imperialist usurper

With religious pretentions,

A grandiose promise of fruit tomorrow.

They all fight for supremacy,

Bursting through a curtain of

Last year’s strings and ties,

Poking through the rotting ribs

Of a long dried water barrel,

Too tired for resistance,

It fails to retain its London pride,

Or hold back the

Engulfing tide,

Overflowing with a tumble of clematis,

And black bamboo, which

Shoots between the green stems

Like spears of war,

Piercing the gathering sky

In anticipation.

Bursting the bubble of summer,

They drink, so readily,

Of the divine gardener’s precipitation,

Hoping to make a growth spurt.

And who would it hurt

To let them grow.

The bumble of bees and butterflies

Will easily have their way with

The rampant buddleia,

Its magisterial purple robes

Swaying wantonly in the breeze,

For all to see.

What a way to behave,

Have they no sense of shame.

Cavorting together,

With such obvious delight,

Enjoying their moment

Soaked in summer’s first full flush.

With no clear sight of the sun

And a lack of appropriate conditions

For pruning,

They are boundless

In their lust for life.

Joyous at the freedom

afforded to them,

Behaving with such rapture

A riot of innocence,

A moment to treasure,

And give pleasure

On yet another, unseasonably,

Stay at home,

In the warm and dry,

Watching the rain

Wash the world away,

Flaming June,

Kind of day.