Thursday afternoon. You sit
in a blue anorak among
twenty-five scarecrow allotments
puddled by weeds. Dogs and blackbirds
shower soil on winter paths.
Six mallards string across the sky
the colour of slugs.
Yesterday it was production.
You scrutinised the prospectus
written for weary soil, struggled
to grow tomatoes bigger than raisins
matchstick beans, unripe
raspberries smelling of weak tea.
Today they arrive in shiny wellingtons
tramp the walkways over twine and hedge-rose
ankled in brown generous mud.
Such poor soil, no surprise -
couldn't call these harvests.
Spend an hour tutting to their pens
by the mangy broccoli.
Adventurous to try broccoli here
in a north wind so near Preston.
You imagine their houses.
Habitat sofa, soft-tone lamps
a microwave in every kitchen.
Today it is management consultants.
Yesterday it was production.
Tomorrow it will be downsizing.
Then the hail begins.
Magpies get the best of it.
On the stream bank, at the edge
of the allotments, they hop
and peck at tuna paste sandwiches.
In the North wind
a white tablecloth flaps.
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