We trained honeysuckle to climb.
Pinched soft, young buds
to encourage growth,
cooed, pinned, tied.
Kept those vines curling upwards
into gaps left barren.
Marvelled at the wild beauty,
the choreographed wild flowers,
the distressed wooden benches.
A modern, cottager’s garden.
It’s the first night back at the Poets Pub after the Christmas break. To kick things off we’ve been given the challenge of writing a quadrille revolving around the world ‘curl’.