The tomatoes are still green and are starting to rot,
While the marrows remain the size of a pea.
The runner beans can barely manage a crawl
And the spring onions might be ready for Christmas.
I’m doing alright for all manner of pests,
Slugs I’ve got those, as big as your car,
And beetles and all kinds of mites.
My apples have maggots,
The pears just have mould.
Meanwhile the plum tree
Lies down on its side,
Complains of the cold
And asks to see a Tree Doctor.
But when I look out of my window
At the X-rated horror show garden
To see what else has died in the night.
I can say with justifiable pride
At least the weeds turned out lovely again.
© 2015 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.