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Rodborough Allotments

1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 Rolled-sleeve, break-back, pounding chest,
Up here, just below Butterow West;
Where I dig and plant and study and sow,
While neighbours wander to and fro,
Past rusting barrows, ramshackle sheds,
Oil drums, baths and compost beds,
With sticks and string to seed-space measure
For next year’s crops to plot and treasure,
As rain drops drip on mouldering fruit,
And deep-dug spade and couch grass root,
While I look down to canal and town,
And railway shed Great Western brown,
And watch the ghosts of gramp and dad:
“Breathe the air ‘fore it’s breathed on lad”,
By the stretched-out cloth on tenter-hook,
Proud Stroud scarlet where the ghosts just stood,
“And stand up straight, stick out your chest,
Now, Stanley Matthews, he was the best”.
I feel the past pulse through my veins,
Digging the future, in mist and rain;
A time to come and times past-present,
This is my harvest on Rodborough allotment.

Good to see you again today, Crispin; let me know if you want me to get another allotment that we could share; best regards, Stuart. PS – Crispin – do you fancy going to see Forest Green next week in the cup at Swindon?

Source: http://footballpoets.org/poems/rodborough-allotments/