A gardener I could never be
As speaking horticulturally
On scale of one to ten, my score
Would surely rate as minus four!
My plants upon the kitchen sill
Think they are in the desert still.
To water them I oft forget
Then suddenly a downpour get.
But tough as boots are these cacti
Refusing stubbornly to die.
To clear the grass I never take
A tool as useful as a rake,
But carrier bag from well known store
Suffices for this job and more.
And plants if bought from market stall
Are likely ne’er to bloom at all,
On seeing who now owns their care
Curl up their leaves in mute despair!
Now spiders I don’t mind at all
That scamper ’cross the floor or wall
But squidgy things like slugs or snails
At these my courage always fails.
A friend once, trying to be kind,
Purchased for me a trap to find
All slugs and snails both far and near
Attracted by the smell of beer.
Merely the thought that they could hide
And drink themselves to death inside
This green contraption, made me ill.
So it is in its wrappings still.
Classification of a weed
As “Plant you haven’t grown from seed
Intentionally”, contrarily
Will flourish most prolifically.
Whilst those you tend with loving care
Spend years not growing anywhere.
With complications understated
And difficulties underrated
A gardener I will never be
I’ll stick to writing poetry!
Janet Johnson
