Tell me Garden, what are you whispering?

(for Vita Sackville-West and Sissinghurst Gardens, and inspired by Wilson Harris' poem, 'Tell me trees, what are you whispering?")

Are you missing the touch of her hands pulling and clearing, grafting and soothing?
Are you missing the mist of her breath warming and cooling, fanning, be-dewing?
Are you missing the tread of her footsteps, sturdy or sinking, leather on slabs, worn soles onto wet grass?
Or is it her voice, feeding through the hedges, dancing along walls, laughter spores falling on your leaves like rain?

Well worry not - watch, as these children curl their young tongues 'round Latin names, implanting words like seeds
Watch, as these gardeners enjoy a brief respite, lampooning snowballs with gloved hands that grip garden forks
push wheelbarrows, stock the compost heap, smear condensation from greenhouse glass, edge seedlings into starter pots and nursery boxes.
You're not whispering at all, but clamouring; pealing away from every bud and thorn with such a chorus, my ears are alive with the ringing.