Allotment

Opposite my cottage is a small allotment

Almost a beauty spot

One well-appointed plot near the bottom

is tended by an old liver-spotted man

cloth cap orientated into the hot sun

robotically hoeing

cracking the clods

           of clotted clay

Stalked by blackbirds and robins

           ever attentive to new veins

But no seeds are ever sown

The bare strip of sepia sod begs for life

                       *

A humdrum elegance and grace flows

from arrangements of mundane forms

vaguely transcendental

           sagely vacuous and very dead

There's a squat rotting brick-red shed

           and a white plastic chair

Lead pipe feeds a steadily dripping tap

           forming a spreading puddle

A conical pile of motely stones in one corner

like a contemplative zen garden

and an old green water bottle

           never employed in this botanic void

An empty terracotta flowerpot stands

           like a cunning afterthought

                       *

It's an intricate mystery

           a Gordian knot

It's not polite to ask him why he tends the plot

with all purpose seemingly forgot

but in frustration once I gave it a shot and asked

           "what have you got to grow this year?"

He shrugged and shook his head

 then said "dear oh dear oh dear"