Grandad's Garden

Grandad’s Garden

Past the bilberry bushes at the side

Along the narrow path that he has flagged himself

With rough-hewn Yorkshire stone

And up three steps between the rocky flower-beds

Into the larger upper garden

Where he rules his undisputed empire

Out of sight of Grandma

And out of hearing, when it’s time for tea

There stands the bunker of his green-house

Heavy-built of brick and iron and glass

Heated by the sun in summer

And by the stove in cooler seasons

With its shed-like little office

The filing done in a dozen pigeon-holes

In tobacco tins and sweet-boxes

Housing his horticultural paraphernalia

Of labels, seeds and bits of string

And, there, hanging limply on one wall

The old certificates, faded firsts

From garden shows of decades ago

And down the length of this glass cathedral

Along the apex, twisting through the cross-ties

A grape-vine of indeterminate age

Its curling foliage providing shade for more tender plants

Which every autumn shyly presents

Its modest crop of bunched black fruits

Now focussed on his bedding plants

Which he sells to earn a few bob

Just to maintain his life-long hobby

Chatting with his mates, sipping tea

Chomping on his unlit pipe

Then fussing with the water-hungry tomatoes

And, finally, his pride and joy

The prize-winning chrysanthemums

Reds and pinks and whites

Which even Grandma admits she likes

Before she complains about the muck

She says he trails into the house

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016