City Front Garden With Old Men

Digging up the patch of earth with a coal shovel

On a frosty December morning, I planted late bulbs

Betting the time for a crop of tulips and marigolds. The plot

Was railed off from the street, old men shuffled by

And looked askance, and why not - it looked like a dump:

I'd re-sodded weeds on their heads

To confuse and kill their geotropic roots,

But they weren't all that was found there. I turned up

Plastic crisp bags, elastic bands, even a biro

And shards of glass deeply embedded in the soil

Like the front window had been blown out, years ago; in places

The soil was closer to gravel than clay:

Turning it all upside down and adding something

Couldn't make much difference: it will thrive as before.