The Pink-Blue Zone

The night grows into
The pink-blue zone
And as always
I stand vigil
As cheap boiled sweets
In the guise of dandelions
And deadhead nettles
Poke through my steps
And stand on their dignity
With purple bells
All fake and merry
Across the green holding
Feathers up in the wind
Into a softness scattered
And soon to be flattened
When the fence gets rattled
By the vixen as she flies
Over with her bread
From Don two doors down
For her cubs as the brimstones
Are no longer fluorescent
Or flapping as the rest
Of the sun carries them
Away with the tiny
Blues for a while now
As the woodpecker hasn’t drummed
But the garden
It goes on you see
In a time of its own