My neighbour is out digging
I can smell the soil from here
From the damp winter’s darkness
He pulls mould and last year’s leaves.
He’s out in the field
But the air is clean
The scent comes in on
The wind in my window.
He plants every year
But it’s under the trees,
Not enough sun
To make a prize of these.
Myself, I’ve grown
Better beans.
It makes a calendar for his life
And probably now for me
With my vast new kitchen garden,
A single pot of parsely seeds.