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
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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.