Printed forget-me-nots

kissed the path up to the old church,

round the back, velvet tendrils

curled like Eve’s hair.


Roses and violets make a tapestry at ground level, softer than anything I’ve ever touched. 

Vipers swim throughout, unhindered by the infectious reputation of a religion that’s irrelevant to them. 

Knowing nothing of their star rating and the hatred enclosed in the cultural heart, they silk through, sewing their presence through the garden’s fancy.