Runcible Spoon

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Community Garden At St.Peter’s


Her loose dress flaunts the colours of sweet peas.

Another moment delights another stranger.

His tailored cloth is brown like sun-baked clay.


She woos the punter at a bus-stop queue,

her skin tattooed with promises. She strays

on the way to the garden seeking Lancelot.


But no one labels newbies in the garden.

A vicar's rule. Wasps are fixated by the bloom.

She's allergic to wasps. Their feckless sting.


She hoes the soil with a shoplifter's intent,

her eyes flecked green like Guinevere's.

Uproots another flower. Grants life to weeds.