Allotment ~ by David Alcock

Our garden was dug years ago:
I forked the ground; you fed.
In muck our mattock chopped.

All it took was one ripe seed,
the quick trance of flowering.
A vital plant, upright, true.

For months I've raised my scythe:
your stems have spread elsewhere.
My children burgeon brightly.

There's a wanton joy in growth;
clipped only by low convention.
I'm done with pruning nature.

Comments

[Catherine Edmunds]

Is it just me, or is this highly erotically charged writing? Starts off with what one might call pheasant plucker's syndrome, and goes on from there.

On the other hand, it could be about an allotment.

Or, on the other...

This poem has many, many hands. I'll have to return when its had time to gestate a little. At the moment my only quibble is the 'four months' as on the page one can see the four/for difference, but reading out loud the double-meaning is lost.

[David Alcock]

Thanks Catherine - oh dear, I see what you mean... Purely unconscious... For once.

I agree about the four/for - an unnecessary bit of biography. Changed back to 'for'.

atb D

[Kevin Jackson]

David, enjoyed this, whether of gardening or (coughs) other affairs.

Not sure about "fast trance"... It snags me each time I read.

k

[David Alcock]

'quick trance' :-) predominately used in the old sense of living, coupled with the concurrent and horrific speed of events. Back later, supper calleth. D