Walled garden warmth, the buzz of bees and
Cupboards of gooseberry bushes,
A garden the way his father showed him.

The dance of cabbage butterflies and I am home,
I am high above the railway line, high above
All the topping and tailing, the old greenhouse,
With blackberries on the fence above the railway.
No single pane of glass but grapes that grew,
Whitecurrants, redcurrants, loganberries, it was
like peas in rows, sweetly climbing
Producing thick and heavy that summer
Letting us make the berry rich kingdom of Fife in south London.

Pods with the sweetest fruit that I’d collect,
Wine, fermenting for weeks,
A suburban garden, my father working, and
In the kitchen, my mother, shelling peas.


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