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
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