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.

The Allotment

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.