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Vert de Gris

Overgrown, nettles sting
I pull without gloves
then run my hands under water
and feel the throb,
hose out, dousing,
snipping, snapping
mr robin comes to chat
and a black cat
watches me, yellow eyes,
I smile but he is timid
but we will soon be friends
I have a way with cats
and already he is curious
this house lends itself
to black cats, snoozing on
the granite lintels.

Overblown, blousy, floozy rose
topples like she has imbibed too much,
perhaps the bee infected her
with too much more than satiated smiles.
I will snip her soon but being tender
I will wait and watch
and hope this capricious wind
will not choke her flirtiness.

Snip, snap, crackle,
scraping mud that cakes
on an old boot scraper
that stands in gory Victoriana splendour
it's tarnished metal
vert-de-gris, soapy green,
I love emerald
but not sure she loves me
in a love me knot triangle
as I soak and soothe away
troubles brewing in my mind.

Poetry by Elle