I have just found this on my computer and I like it. I’m not terribly confident with my poetry, but I like elements of it.
It reeks of weed killer and tweed.
There is no shed, and yet
It is a sanctuary of flat caps, flasks
And giving up. A get together of sensible
Opinions and even more sensible shoes.
Here, we trade tips on growing straighter
Cucumbers, shame at our carrots’ protuberances.
We like our beans to be long, our potatoes spotless.
We pride the size of our marrows.
We attract the butterflies. The cabbage
Whites dicing with the breeze. It’s a hub
Of pollination. And yet it’s a secret garden
When we’re here, we’re invisible to the naked eye.
The wrong sort of insect gets
Attacked by diluted washing up liquid.
It’s our only use for it – our dears in slippers
Housecoats and curlers normally see to that.
We put out beer for slugs to slug and die.
Our real gardens at home have
Acres of green grass, water features, and
Greenhouses tucked away behind garages. We
Confine the places where we shit into ditches to grow beans
To a council plot.
But when we die, we ask for a spray of carrots,
A wreath of cauliflowers for our final digging.
A harvest festival of remembrance.