Your garden, my dear, is a fine old mess:
a tangle of loose footings, barbs,
weird furling fronds and tenderness.
Yet as I tear and trip my path
through your abstract canvas of all
the greens, you pick your way, allotment
tribesman, foraging to the places your thoughts
have already been, for leathery bitter
leaves of rocket, for broken, scented
bones of rhubarb, for feathery dill,
for scratchy parsley; you find the gooseberries
plumping out their hairy sheaths
for sour resin.
The garden breathes.
Scrawny hens watch in the briars,
bobbing-headed, like native villagers,
plumbsuckers are tightening in their knots,
as I day-dream of cinder paths
and neat raised beds in strict geometry,
my ankles sinking calmly into loam.
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