Fork
clumped soil into air
& so be obliged to remove

damn stones under loam /
My early lessons from my

Dad
lent me bent to crafts
but my art was opposed

by other’s cuts & too easy
takes to clear rooted fixes

Weeding
out requires hand
& eye to both bury & break

forged weights of laid clay –
to open seed-set places in

all
our turned out robust beds/
Not digging to evade duty –

instead a modern victory if
we agree to those older rules

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Also on Medium

Old lust – our ragged plot
of strangling weeds –
of poisonous shrubs
turn to interleave

I no longer prune hard –
here they still grow –
even tool-turned beds
take foul seeds
as true

You employ a man –
whom you poorly pay –
who digs in hard
with hands-on-spade

He labours for hours –
the rough cover he tears –
as he clears the unloved –
you taste his turned air

This subdued back garden
resists the thrust of growth
now the month has an ‘r’,

its slow dew will not shift
until that letter is removed
by the turn of the earth:

my grandfather is no longer there
with his shined boot pressed
upon the shoulder of his spade,
in all weathers, turning the earth.