Garden in March by Theo Lewis

The river’s still running along where I haven’t been watching it;
been neglecting my post in the garden.
In the quiet shed the tools lie mummified in dust,
the hot smell of creosote survives,
the sunlight on this day of answers and excuses
illuminates the tins and colours on the shelves,
the flying flecks of dust and the midges by the ditch.
The grass of the lawn grimaces up at me- ‘cut me, come on!’
But the lawnmower is in the shed sleeping.
The daisies laugh and the daffodils hum in the sunlight.
I’ve retreated to my room where my bed is,
the sheets cool and the window open,
the dust settling hourly on my books,
where I can barely hear the daisies and daffodils,
where I must crane my neck to see the glint of the sun on the river.