An Invitation
Come to the garden
surrounded with trees.
The oaks are dark with pleasure of the sun
And the fullness of its yielding’s begun.
The air is sweet with the smell of sweetpeas
And fruit boughs bending with work of the bees
And beanpole pyramids lean, overfreighted
With fine purple pods. Beneath their serrated,
Prickled leaves, the cucurbits fill with ease
And swell in a week to immensities.
Crowns of the earlies are yellow and done,
The fat little gems of their spuds are spun.
Let suasive phrases of an August breeze,
Conjuring sights and scents and senses mated,
Tell you the rumours of how you’re awaited.
John Gibbens
An earlier version of this poem was published in Agenda, in the
online supplement to the “Past Histories” issue, Vol. 43, No.
1.