Amongst the raspberry canes,
A skirt, wellies, no pants,
And feeling not at all nineteen,
But rather, Earth-old.
The glottal stop and kickstarted breath,
As roots are unscrewed from the soil;
This fern must come out, but
Foetus buds are bound
Tight against the forceps.
Suddenly the alleyway
(Which runs alongside the vegetable patch)
Is sharp with a cider-step,
A shout and two swinging fists.
I tread beside, behind
The cockerel stride.
This wide wake of confidence and youth
Is too great for my grasp.
I follow it to the garden wall.
I let it pass.
Then I turn back to the work at hand.