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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.