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Our
Garden
Our
garden, plotted into Pen Dinas,
was the
size of an allotment ;
row upon
row of peas, gooseberries, currants,
beads,
marbles and purple nuggets.
My mother
digging as if another war
were
coming from the Bay on the other
side of
the hill; but only the roar
of
breakers like an impassioned lover.
Though
spade and fork were weapons
and soil
broke up like split skin,
we would
pick our fill of beans,
tugging
at potatoes, earth still clinging.
While
inside the house, my father held his skull:
a pod so
easily burst, fruit spilled.
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