Wild garden

 There are no sign-posts to the garden
the lane discrete, grass and moss
gravel crunshing up the slope
call if you wish but do not disturb
or wake the bluebells, noon is passed
their chimes are for another day.

The poppy brazen red, dancing flamencoes
skirts flouncing in the breeze and rain,
out of place in an English garden;
but  are welcome, joining daisies
and the thistles, they come each year
stay, leave their seed, wild and free
no need of pots and boxes,
on the breeze they come
goldfinches make them feel at home.
I too welcome, there a place for me
content to struggle in the thicket by the gate.

Brush back the grass,  see speedwell blue
say 'Hello excuse me' then leave in peace.
I learnt their language years ago ,read the signs,
watched the lips of foxglove and oxlip yellow
in the fall, cut hay as seed pods burst,
left it for the badger, snails and such like
to keep away the cold. I may not call again 'til spring
if I do shall see the poppy lift her skirts,
pretty ankles among speed-well blue and grass.