by cricketjeff on October 17, 2010. © Jeff Green, All rights reserved
His carrots grew as straight as arrows flew.
When the village show was nearing he would disappear for weeks,
Casting magic spells that only gard’ners knew.
He could plant three hundred seedlings after nine hours at the face,
And his potting shed was pristine not a dibber out of place.
The allotments would be buzzing with the men he’d always known,
Adding horse manure to Sunday’s rhubarb tarts,
Then a pint or two of comfort as they talked of all they’d grown
And they played a game of dominoes or darts.
When the barman rang last orders he would head back home to Nan,
And the sausages and bacon that she’d left him in the pan.
He was closing in on sixty when they closed the local pit,
So he took the cash they offered and retired.
Double digging tatty trenches would be sure to keep him fit
And the veg he grew ensured he’d be admired.
He and Nan were always happy though they seldom seemed to meet;
He was out by ten past breakfast, never stuck beneath her feet.
Till the council sent a letter “the allotments had to go”,
For a supermarket car-park and some flats.
For a year or more the diggers fought against the dreaded blow,
But they couldn’t beat the hoards of men in hats.
He still had his little garden but things couldn’t be the same,
When they took away his kingdom they put out a special flame.
Now there’s just a single grow-bag with tomatoes for his tea,
And he lost his Nan a dozen years ago.
In his room he keeps the trophies of the man he used to be,
And some pictures of the leeks he used to grow.
Now he’s waiting to be compost for some other fellows weeds,
One more victim of a system that ignored his simple needs.
No, it is just a story.
Punctuation to follow …