Don’t search just yet
for the buried trowel,
forgotten in a line 
of Ryecroft Purple
(between Myatt’s Ashleaf
and Ninetyfold).

Let it dream untroubled dreams
of Russet and Yukon Gold
guided through 
shallow channels
by unsentimental hands.

Galaxies of seasoned earth
it birthed in its time -
star dust wrought by bronze blade -
knowing times of late spring frost,
corners of uncomplicated soil.

A darker patch, barren,
slumps beside espalier pears.
Unloved by hand or trowel,
melancholic, like an oboe unravelling
the stout weave of a Brandenburg.

Beyond, a gardener’s tabby
snoozes in the Kennebecs.
X marks the spot 
where undiscriminating roots
cradle what once tended them.

Autumn’s brutal fork 
will determine what is still owed
to the old potato trowel
and to ourselves,
caught between fertility
and the gathering cold.

Will Griffith is a secondary school teacher who is new to the craft of writing poetry. He is set to appear in a few forthcoming anthologies (FromOneLine by Konayaashi Studios, and Arcane Love by Spectrum of Thoughts). He has appeared in the online magazine The Organic Poet and writes short pieces regularly on Twitter and Instagram under the handle @BunglerBill.