Beyond the Border / Inside the Box
Butterflies are about their quiet business
amongst white trumpets of bindweed.
It weaves tangle clinging sallow shoots,
parting from fences easily where it sits
once tackled and sheared and shredded,
lacking deep reasons about why it has
serious claim to not being labelled pest
amongst the rest; this suckering cuckoo.
Beyond clatters a horrid discord of noise;
two mutts released, one dog and a bitch,
you cannot disentangle which from which,
a rigid yapping knot of unmuzzled snout
fastspin tumble dried in colours blurred
become a blackwhite pebble dash brown
clunky double act of fairground clowns.
Rushed airhead hurtles round and round
this fenced in piece of badly boxed turf,
accusing one blade of grass or the other
of trespass, violations of blood brother,
earth mother; clawing up wanton clover
in haste to uncover any hidden intruder.
Trill echoing din, both shriek ceaselessly,
bound off brick walls, repulsed by hurdles
drooling; each pants, take turns in girdles.
No stone untouched, pouncing on seeds,
nutshell bombs from twittering magpies,
amusing themselves in lofty detachment,
glitter sleek swift above, to sail clear skies
amongst the drifting cloud of butterflies,
listening to futile bindweed of inane order
from inside the box; beyond the border.