She’s now happy to give in, let the weeds
win over at least a corner of the garden,
over there, between the blue clapboard shed
and the fence, too lazy to hold itself up,
furthest from the back porch, where it all
happened. No-one else sees, she supposes.
The rosebay willow herb fills up the view
every July, with its clamour of firework spikes,
more reliably than the delphiniums ever did;
the hoverflies love the nettles, the ragwort,
and bees spoil themselves on crowns of clover.
The redundant sickle hangs from a thick nail.
first published in The Cannon’s Mouth, Issue 61, 2016