She was difficult, they said, but she loved flowers.

She planted white sweet scented narcissus

to dance before the loch

and yes, a host of golden daffodils.

Pink, purple and red rhododendrons

high enough to play under.

A windbreak for her Japanese scene.

Acrid smelling gold and coral azaleas

and a silvery wooden bench where

to sit and catch the weak northern sun.

Squirrels floating lightly on the beechmast

among pale wood anemones, later

above a rippling sea of blue so blue.

The huge gean tree on the north side

suddenly covered in frothy white

later with scarlet  fruit for jam.

Her walled garden of delights with

oldfashioned colombines and tiger lilies,

lemon scented darkest red roses

and armfuls of rainbow sweet peas.

Sunwarmed Victorias and green Queen Claudes,

hairy striped red and jadegreen gooseberries,

and jewel-like redcurrants to use as earrings.

A secret place with only pale pink roses

and shyly nodding sky-blue pansies,

with a birdbath full of glinting wings

creating diamond flashing drops.

In autumn the calling skeins of geese

making us aware of winter looming,

and in the beechwood we shunned

violet amethyst deceivers,

damp glossy brown sow's ear

and jet black dead men's trumpets.

The birches turned to brightest yellow,

and her house was set alight by flaming creeper.

She was difficult, they said

but never once with me.

I loved her and her legacy,

delight in growing things.