for dVerse Poets

We have a smaller garden now that is far from perfect.  Gardening here is fraught with peril.  We plant seedlings, only to have them immediately dug up by the neighbourhood cats.  We have tried everything – cat repellent, cayenne pepper, bark chips, rocks – you name it!  Unfortunately it seems that many of our cat-owning neighbours are not much into gardens, so ours becomes a magnet for cats seeking easy digging.  Consequently there seem to be more rocks than plants in our garden.

We also have an old, rusted corrugated iron fence that most would call ugly, but the textures on it fascinate me.  And the plainest of plants have a beauty of their own, casting green shadows in the evening.

not always in the eye
of the beholder


I see you still
stooped, in your garden
as the night falls around you
but when I reach out
you are already leaving

what happens
when the heart has gone
from a garden
from the bee-buzzing sweetness
of the flowers

further than daylight
wheat fields stretch
to a darkening sky
a man and his dog
going home

this morning
I stood on the hill
as the sun rose
and a late Morepork
called your name


These things I hold sacred
the right of children to be fed
the right of a man to earn his bread
the right of the elderly
to sleep in the sun, without fear
the right of all life to be cherished

© Maureen Sudlow

sun rising


I will always
be a part, of
this moment
this sunlight
this birdsong.
I will always take
these memories
when I go…

distant truck
changing gear on the long hill
drowned by a blackbird

rushing flight
of a Kereru
above the trees

two Monarch butterflies
dancing in the sun
before the next
long winter comes

coolness of clouds
diluting the sunlight
presence of love


© Maureen Sudlow

No place like home


something about a wild garden
speaks with warmer colours,
enhances the dozy hum of bees,
twittering of birds in the Banksia

red poppy flags against
the roughness, where
the old blackberry garden
sent tangled vines above
the wooden frames

from somewhere there’s a scent
of wood-smoke, and the delicate
perfume of the Frangipani
carried by the breeze.



‘Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth, while the evil days come not, nor the years draw nigh, when thou shalt say, I have no pleasure in them….’

from Ecclesiastes 12, Holy Bible

‘To everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven.  A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted.’  Ecclesiastes 3:1