This Forum will close on Wednesday 27 March, 2024. Please refer to the announcement on the Discussions page for further detail.
Garden poetry
TheHappyGrower
Posts: 181
So fellow gardeners 
have you ever written about gardening? or maybe put down a poem or some verse about this wonderful pastime/hobby?
Now is your chance 
It does not have to be serious it can be like a Pam Ayres poem which is as you know full of amusing verse but it`s your choice.
So take it away who`s first
0
Posts
A dude with a poetry attitude it`s clear to see
i shall explain i aim to please
the answer that follows is short and sweet
the number of lines could be two as in number of feet
but flow as you feel with ease & delight
poetry about the garden is
the header in sight.
Soon come the day
whilst we sit and pray
when bees and butterflies play
In the gardens we've planted
We cannot wait to get started
The grass will grow,
The seeds we will sow,
We share what we know
And that's how nature will go.
(I have no idea if this even counts but I just made it up on the spot!)
New to all this gardening lark,
often up the wrong tree I bark.
Trying with all of my might,
to learn what's wrong and what is right.
All in a dither when I direct sow,
....seedlings or weeds........I don't know!
What is this and what is that,
if you folk can't help me......I'll eat my hat!
Planting pals and flowering friends,
your knowledge of gardening never ends.
Thankyou for sharing it with me,
one day, in return, maybe I'll help someone.......we will have to wait and see
I love my garden it’s a joy
I tend it with great care
And all the plants they bloom and grow
It’s beauty it doth share.
No shrub or flower causes grief
No bugs or weeds annoy
The seasons each provide a thrill
So can someone tell me why.
Despite such careful pruning
And feeding with such care
My damn Wisteria just wont flower
It simply isn’t fair.
Seasons. Natures Reflections.
Magnolia blossom on leafless branches, flash beauty upon a backdrop of still frosted, covered and bare, but knowing fingers from the bough.
Winter is ending.
Under the open canopy, and out in the meadows, yellow, blue, cream and white offerings, wave their heads majestically, turgid above a young green swathe, upon which dappled light starts dancing through still almost naked branches of the wood.
Birds abound, dipping, swirling, answering, and calling to young that sing for food.
This is spring.
Now bees and insects still buzz here and dart there. Blossoms gone, their job done, and fruit are born.
Orchard arms bowing low with heavy yields.
And heads sway lazily in the sun, making gold the fields of corn, from above and all around is warm.
Summer is here.
Telltale hues not before seen, is news, that time is turning. Vibrant displays of leaf laden, swollen trees that forest hills now turned a kaleidoscope of shades, and fall.
To the ground, now hidden under a carpet of infinite and exquisite shapes that leaves no space.
Natures blanket is down.
And this is autumn.
Settled and waiting, resting; the charges for the next season sleep. For now their job is done.
Above, the crisp cold air give freshness to the damp past that was, and grasps all in a tight, icy grip. Nothing moves. Frozen and held.
Winter now.
A rustle. Movement.
Above, the light throws its comfort and all about life is stirring.
Blossom struggles; bursting against buds, not yet releasing their hold, for fear that it’s not over, too cold.
And yet Magnolia blooms, pinks, reds and whites scent the air with notice, and the ice melts, a seasons tear.
Winter is ending. Spring is here.
There as a young man from Kentucky
Who liked to go out and get mucky
With dibber in hand
And nothing much planned
The dibber just went and got...stuck-y...
Hmm...maybe not what you had in mind Happy Grower....
I live in west central Scotland - not where that photo is...
There was a young man from Leeds
Who swallowed a packet of seeds
Great tufts of grass
@ were all covered with weeds
Silly Sunday Smile
I found a hole
And then a mole
I filled the hole
No more mole
Gardening in Central Norfolk on improved gritty moraine over chalk ... free-draining.