August is the month when the unspoken garden stops and thinks. 
Things still grow, but the growing is slow.
The knowing does its growing.

The philosopher saint
(Aurelius Augustinus)
securus judicat orbis terrarium
which means
‘the verdict of the world is final’.

The unspoken garden is the world
and the world is the unspoken garden
as it knows no other
and neither do I.
The unspoken garden has spoken
but before it speaks
it thinks
and it does that in its august time.

It decides where it will continue to cogitate
and where it will no longer ponder
the ground were no more propositions
will be laid
the land where its conceptions
will continue to go wild.
Give me back my legions
famously proclaimed
Formerly Gaius Octavianus
And latterly
Gaius Julius Caesar Octavius
when enemy warriors had 
annihilated his troops.

I will give you endless legions
thinks the thoughtful garden.
Some this autumn
some to sleep through the winter
some to herald the spring
some to follow it into cover
which will
in turn
make me another summer.
The unspoken garden’s wet womb
is the hourglass lake we thought to give it.
(Or perhaps we simply heard its command?)
The pond is where the garden reflects
while myriad nymphs 
never give thinking a thought
as freshwater shrimps
and fleas, and larvae 
through un-sliding mud
outwitting dragonfly cadets
commando carp
and paratrooper newts
all of which
will swallow on sight
and salute the last goodnight.
Hawker dragonfly nymph
All the pond’s thoughts are 
of life-support
via water for everyone
while never questioning
that the only answer 
is a life for a life.
Eat and don’t get eaten.
Swallow and swish away
to swim another day.
Newt in paratrooper attitude
Lazarus rises and looks on.
He survived the domestic panther’s jaws.
I put him back in the pond
thinking he was a goner
but the pond in its wisdom
thought otherwise
and he still lives
and many years later 
he is the biggest fish
in the small pond
and endlessly parades to prove the notion
that it is the water that decides
who gets the highest promotion.
Lazarus (bearing scars from feline fangs) and Martha & Mary
The tommies in the greenhouse
buff up their red berets
and are picked off
or leap for their lives
but they are not in the plans
of the unspoken garden
who is, instead, scheduling
moss and lichen
knowing full well
that in the nursery of time
the glass and aluminium
can be entirely swaddled
and once more
the world will decide
just what is out
and what is
Smaller older, wiser apple tree, seen from beneath the boughs of its younger, more muscular, less thoughtful relation
We think the smaller apple
is the elder tree
of the two 
unquestionably the senior
despite the sight
of far fewer pips on its shoulders.
Each august time
both trees decide 
just how much fruit they will hold
and drop
but we mustn’t interrupt just yet
or they’ll change their minds
about how generous they will be
next year
and the one after that.

the unspoken garden 
is turning over thoughts 
of the vegetable beds
what it will tolerate where
and which orphans it might
adopt and foster.

The grass whispers
wondering what it will be required to do
while the privets 
on parade
along the boundaries
prepare to take a savaging
but entertain no other consideration
than to reinforce stronger
as they always do
every time.

And thus
each branch
of the unspoken garden
has its mind made up
by the single mastermind
in the everlasting underground bunker.
Its badge bears
its Augustine motto
securus judicat orbis terrarium
‘the verdict of the world is final’.

The unspoken garden 
is our part of the world
and as September stalks
it has arrived at its Augustine verdict.

Will we be allowed
to serve another year?

It knows
but isn’t saying.

Other thoughts from the unspoken garden include:

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