My Dad Complains That The Hedges Are Overgrown

and the word bemuses me, implying as it does
the concept of excess in what can only be good.

Molluscous receivers, would that you could
turn your talents inwards, and pick up
all that goes on in the cerebral swamp . . .

There’s a
flash of colour
from the hedge.

And when you step into the clearing
 
there will be dancing. The unsteady moon, shaken
to ribbon; shimmering through regalia of clouds.

A buzzard mews, turns in the wind,
a faraway engine grumbles.

She doesn’t know what she is doing.
She chops and boils, snacks and sneezes, sits.
Classical radio plays, imbuing
the scene with comic dignity and wit.

Ivy thrives
despite dependency.
It hangs on, has its other day.

How much water did you have to drink this morning?
Did you sip your coffee without worrying
about its diuretic properties? Was it sunny
where you were?

I was cutlery left out in the rain, rusty
by morning, a side-slipping fiddlestick
desperate for music, starved for company.