Runcible Spoon

poetry and prose webzine

Poetry Prose Submissions Contributors Home heart logo Privacy Notice Links Phil Wood

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.