A garden in Wales

by Cath Barton

1
In this, the year of my becoming,
we have summer,
days and days of summer.

In the cool of early morn
the roses in the garden hold their breath
against the coming heat.
The stamens of the evening primrose flowers
tremble,
and I listen to the incipient buzz of the day.

A bird beats its wings,
frogs plop into the pond,
and a rose petal twirls
on an invisible thread.

Each tiny sound is amplified
and significant
in the garden
today.

2
I am not a constant gardener,
but, though forgetful, remiss
and often idle,
I thrill in growth when it comes,
and smile at the antics of the insects
who cut patterns in the leaves
of the roses,
and the young newts
who wriggle in the net
with which I fish fairy moss
from the pond.