How Times Change
From the top of those familiar wooden steps you look down
at the desolate ground, which still looks bewildered even after all this time.
You think back to how the violent sun used to scorch your neck,
as punishment for interfering with your Grandfathers routine and hiding his trowel.
Remember how you peered down from your raised haven
as if the Queen of the lawn,
observing the long strips of turf and soil
and addressing the spades like subjects.
You close your eyes and remember the rows of creamy parsnips
growing in perfect parallel with one another.
Harmoniously.
Now they are rotten, turf trodden, sodden and spoiled.
Orange bricks replace the carrots
which once filled your Sundays with fruition.
Is this poem about grandfather going to heaven and somebody taking over his house then patio-ing over his veg patch?
ReplyDeleteNo its a girl grown up now at her grandfathers allotment which is being torn down and turned into flats. good try though :) xxx
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