Bamboo Garden

From the catalogue I plant out
a bamboo garden – green canes
fading gold as spring sun
scatters mist off the ridge.

Each new page has me digging trenches
pouring mineral mixes and screening
off the neighbours and their dog
that slobbers over the fence.

The canes draw the sour earth
into ripped paper leaves
yellow leaf edges drip
in sun between the houses.

Malign spirits will be repelled
by reddish stems fading gold
beside the front door.

I put down the catalogue –
the order form is filled but unsent.

I’m standing in my mother’s place
where she told me not to fill the house
with ferns and orchids from the closing nursery -
they were a perk for losing that job.
The windowsills would have rotted to a termite softness.
Now they are white lead hard.

The bamboo garden is on the point of invasion –
about to spear the barking dog –
take the eye out that peeps
at me and my washing
and the rarest canes
have turned from gold to red
paper cut leaves
spiny and rough
set to surface beyond the fence
cut their way through the bushes and lawns.

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