The air is thick with vapour and the lingering night.
I park my bike against the wire fence,
avoiding the pointed knots that have caught the saddle before now.
The shed roof looks safe from this side but
the covering on the far pitch has flapped over in one place
and worn bare in others.
At least it's not any worse, despite the winds.
I have a roll encrusted with sea-green grit in the sturdier shed at home
and will felt in a week or so's time
when the grubbing up and the digging are done.
I fit the battery to the strimmer and for a quarter of an hour
scythe to right and left along the paths.
An electric Poldark in scuffed jacket
and misted safety goggles.
Thank goodness for the lingering night.
—
The leaves of the cues and the Italian courgettes are brown-mottled,
though there are small fruits still –
lemon and wax-green, acid with ridges, smooth striped.
The beans are desiccated wigwams with no runners and just a few French.
Fine rain drifts across and I almost decide not to dig.
But there is a pause and I fetch the spade and
cut along the edges of where the potatoes were, in preparation.
More drifts. Another pause.
I start.
I turn over a couple of yards,
Uncovering missed spuds, slicing some.
Until St Mary's tolls eight.
I set the petering-out autumn harvest on the grass.
Click. I take a photograph and wonder what I'll write.
