Rolled sleeve, break-back, pounding chest,
Up here, just below Butterrow West,
Where I plant and dig and study and sow,
While neighbours wander to and fro,
Past rusting barrows, ramshackle sheds,
Oil drums, baths, and compost beds,
With sticks and string to seed-space measure,
For next year’s crops to plot and treasure,
As rain drops drip on mouldering fruit,
And deep dug spade and couch grass root,
While I look down on canal and town,
Old Great Western cream and brown,
And hear the ghosts of gramp and dad:
‘Breathe the air ‘fore it’s breathed on lad’,
By the stretched-out cloth on tenterhook,
Old Stroud scarlet where the ghosts just stood,
And feel the past pulse through my veins,
Digging the future in mist and rain,
A time to come; and past, and present,
This is my harvest on Rodborough
allotment.
By Stuart Butler
