Walled Feelings
by S.C.Cullen
The blooms do a-swage my arthritic wince
As beauty’s balm touches the rugged path
of shoe-gritting pain
that pesters me throughout the day.
M’Lord leans on his staff
Bending towards a Hellebore
whose unseasonal green hue
seems to lighten his austerity
Just a tinge
‘Helleborus foetidus, I believe.
Poisonous and stinking spawn
of the Ranunculaceae family!
No?’
I nod
and recall manicuring it’s beauty
like my father and his
I think
each bud a bairn, as off-spring
from life’s longing for itself
coming through my tender patience
towards this burgeoning potential
of life’s beauty
- and likely death
come from the seed or corm
that my unloved heart
has never spawned
‘Yes, m’Lord
Is deadly.
So.’
As we both stare down
upon this beauteous growth amidst the deep dark wintering sods.
My mind darts to m’Lord’s lost bairn
neither glance
nor step a little left to Hellebore Niger
whose petal white purity
his late wife brought from alpine climes
to memorialise
their sweet little Elizabeth
- my sweet Miss Lizzie
Truth twitches
and my nervous smile is lost
in my walled feelings.
I told no one
but planted my own grief
with Busy Lizzy - impatients walleriana
in a corner of my heart-place
- there
behind the statuette.
Each year I replant her sweet loveliness.
Just as she used to come by
and crouch to help
unworried by my ugliness
as only young bairns are.
But both our old minds now
glance off the past.
‘Ah well. Chin up!’
And he is gone.
But plants I love
do love me back.
This walled garden is a place
that holds my heart
and my secrets safe
Nurturing those parts
unfed by humankind
- those awkward times
when words just fail
like leaden aches
But plant growth n’er
has failed to find a way
to speak of life
in this brick-bounded realm.
Walled in
and warm
Protected with the texture of an old tweed coat
I am enwrapped
in a different clime
in which I happily bow and scrape
away the skin of earth
on creaking bones
and battered knees
to care
for m’lord
- and my lost family
Sir Walter Calverley Blackett created the Walled Garden into which exotic plants were brought and cultivated. He had one child, Elizabeth, who died young. His wife then died in 1759.
The poem is an imaginary encounter with Sir Walter Blackett after her has lost both his wife and daughter - with whom the gardener had a close bond.