Hose Holder
Clenching in my fist the garden hose,
finger tight on the nozzle trigger,
I stand near the back of the back garden
(where the sprinkler systemıs lacking)
at dusk content, despite the trickle
of tickling water to bare elbow;
content despite the hum of eveningıs
first madam mosquito winging this way
to alight on my arm - she lowers her sharp,
draws my blood, and prickly-stings.
(Go, little insect, escaping my slap,
go then, prosper and multiply...)
The westering sun has sunk, dooming my
last intermittent spray-rainbow.
Never the gardener this place needs
(thatıs my wife with her garden eye,
visionary dream and plant-nursery skill,
while I trudge behind with hand on trolley
deploring the cost of its growing burden
when the garden at home is already full),
nevertheless I relish this lesser role,
bringer of water to the drooping thirsty,
drought-quencher of this parched patch,
though sometimes merely drenching plants
already wilted and dead... to which
too late I say: brethren, let us spray.
The two dogs are inside, noses pressed
to the back window, otherwise theyıd be
leaping where the jet leaves the nozzle.
My wifeıs inside, plotting new plots,
irises among the roses, and making tea.
Hosing the place, while refreshing it,
makes the hose-holding householder thirsty.
Time was, in some heat-wave now legendary,
Iıd turn the hose on myself, gulping
a cool draught and rinsing sweaty
dust from my limbs. That was in a harder garden -
I was not a hardened gardener,
rushing inside irate, irritated
by mosquito bites to obscenity.
Not here, sheltered by a kind tree canopy;
not now, itıs blithe November -
though the promised summer
threatens to be a killer. Then weıll see
how stoical and generous - or not - I can be.
Wednesday 2 November 2005
Max Richards in Melbourne
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