HIGHDOWN GARDENS
JUNE
By Rilla Dudley
The garden ran with colours
like a painting left in the rain.
Greens blurred with sky
and blue delphiniums.
Until we stopped by the pond.
I saw the water-lilies.
You saw the fish, opening
their mouths, like you,
with words that had no voice.
And later, I knew the meaning
of the silent scream.
Returning, we saw pink hollyhocks,
daydreaming for your cottage garden,
and roses.
The fish were hidden.
Our eyes, no longer blurred,
listen to our words
taking on a different reality,
as if the Earth had shuddered.
HIGHDOWN GARDENS
Autumn
By Rilla Dudley
In the Autumn garden
trees stood like gods,
leaves piled richly
at their feet, glowing
yellow as raw silk.
Leaves, dangling earrings
of garnets and rubies,
suspended delicately from
bones of branches, stirred
at a wind’s breath.
Banquets of berries,
a Bacchanalian feast,
hung in heavy clusters,
wine red amongst
darker foliage.
In the private silence
of the garden, two birds
flapped noisily away,
as if disapproving of our
intrusion at their feast.
PLEASE GRANDMA
By Pamela O’Dell
‘Please, Grandma, let’s go up and look.’
‘I’d never manage all those stairs, Peter.’
‘Go very slowly, Grandma. After three steps sit down and have a rest.’
‘That would take all day.’
‘Please, Grandma, Auntie Joyce says it’s a very special room.’
‘Alright, but I’ll have to go slowly. Understand, I’ll have to go slowly.’
‘Yipee, Auntie Joyce says fairies live in the room and you can hear
them laughing and playing.’
‘Peter, come back, not so fast.’
‘She says there’s a little window where you can see friends who have died, and animals. And they’re all happy.’
‘Peter, come back, not so fast. I must rest, there’s a good boy.’
‘Do you think I’ll set Hamie, my hamster, and Jet?’
‘Darling, don’t get excited, you might not see anything.’
‘You might see Treacle and Caper and the cat you had when you were little, Archibald.’
‘We didn’t call him Archibald, we called him Archie. Oh, how many more steps, Peter?’
‘Well, why should Auntie Joyce say you’ll see them if you won’t?’
‘I must rest again, Peter.’
‘Only a few more steps, Grandma.’
‘Oh there’s the door. The key looks dreadfully rusty, I think we might have difficulty turning it.’
‘Quick, Grandma.’
‘It must be years since the door was opened. If I turn the handle will you push?’
‘It’s stuck, Grandma.’
‘Let me have a big push…Ah, there we are. It’s smelly, isn’t it? There’s the little window, too high for you, put the box underneath it. Here, take my hankie and wipe the window clean, else you won’t see anything. I’m going to rest on this old bench.’
‘Can’t see anything, Grandma.’
‘Have you cleaned the window?’
‘Oh. Wait a miunte, there’s a man coming out of a potting shed carrying a rose plant. Do you think that’s Grandpa? He’s handing it to a lady. Grandma, he’s handing it you. Grandma, it’s you. It’s you, Grandma…Gran…’
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