We donate the lawn mower when we move,

among the blade lapels and straight-pinned suits,

the garden all paving and gravel now,

grey as the granite in this part of town.

Since going out seems like lives ago,

now we sit among the stones,

watch what sprouts between the patio,

spikes with such willingness to grow.

You say, we could go artificial,

by-pass the mowing, weeding, treating,

regard the edited grounds all around,

perhaps it’s best not to play out of bounds.

I say, we could cultivate a tribe,

a place for bees and insects to thrive,

native flowers, daisy, catchfly, cosmos,

hazy love-in-the-mist gossamer.

You say, we’d only be judged for neglect,

neighbouring gardens are so well kept,

look to the mannered alliums next door,

lupins over the road, number 4 and those roses.

I say, who cares if it grows under our feet,

some old sod won’t lower the tone of the street,

let’s live horse, make hay, it takes forty shades,

we will all be out to pasture one day.