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.