In Memory of the Travelled Gardener

In Memory of the Travelled Gardener

First published on The Lake

He tidied up their vegetable plot,
swollen marrows and spindly rhubarb
addressed with equal measure,

and he thought how he might like his own,
a garden – a home, similarly;
the moon projected its ghost’s face out

like a white cone over all the plots
and the junk-heaps of the wired city –
some kind of city of up-all-night-type people;

his sweet potatoes warmed in the soil
and he heard the worms sliding about
all up and around them as he lay,

his cheek and then his ear getting cold,
head sinking in to the plot for sleep,
dreaming of Paris, Omaha, Berlin.