twelve lines and a couplet
I used to wander through the bluebell woods,
Alone and free, told no-one where I went,
Wild with spring-time and the exploding buds,
And half drunk on the flowers’ bruised blue scent.
But those days are gone. Now I spend my time,
Gently patrolling the allotment’s rows,
Where once grew wild garlic, metre and rhyme,
Now lead my heart away from prose.
My patch is there amongst the other plots,
Where I prune and trim in daylight hours,
Foster tender plants in greenhouse pots,
And grow alternate rows of herbs and flowers.
Though twelve lines and a couplet may seem tame,
Words still thrust through and bloom, I find, the same.
© James Nash 2009