The gardener.




Every summer you took the young beans to Wilton market,
the slow peddle up the Gravelly Hill,
they were magic beans, that saved the world,
"repeat please".


As he turned the hurricane into the teeth of hatred,
first you joined the Polish army,
then the fascists and the soviets forced you into their killing machine.

Her dress is still sky blue and green.

So fed up with death you came to Albion,
serving the finest wine to a Welshman that spoke for the world,
I knew you in your last days,
always time to talk to the children of the long peace.

You will forever be there, in the allotment potting shed with the terracotta pots
and the magic beans,
I serve you my finest wine,
grown from the new vineyards and pressed like a baby suckling for love.

He died with his boots on.

The butterflies are coming back and the Jewish watchmaker,
is mending time in Witton.

~