Thursday, 13 August 2020

Beyond the Border / Inside the Box

 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.


  1. Bind weed, the scourge of my garden. I spend a long time untangling it and pulling it out. Well written, Pete.

    1. thank you - and you know, reading your kind comment helped me repair a flaw in the last couplet.