The Arctic, after many a summer,
is melting and our magnolia
flowers twice. In more unenlightened times,
a lone frog, even a Common Frog,
appearing at the small water feature
enclosed by ornamental grasses
and bamboo – in a garden frogless
for all the decades we have tended it –
would have been runed with ill omens.
We have butterflies – a number of Peacocks,
some Large Tortoiseshells, an occasional
Comma – but cannot recall the last
caterpillar. We bought a pocket book
of butterflies for our granddaughter.
She chose it. We had seen a Purple Hairstreak
at Wisley, fluttering above the Gunnera
Manicata, the uneatable
‘Giant Rhubarb’ from the deforested
mountains of Brazil. She leafs through the pages.
How old will she by the time it becomes
a book of remembrance?