Have you got shallots?


Have you got shallots?

You said you had not

But I was able to spot

A lot of shallots

Growing down on your plot.

How are your broccoli?

Mine are a lottery

Look at them! You can see

Covered in spots they be.

Broccoli worry I.

Look at all your lovely spuds

All of mine have come up duds

I've mucked and mulched and sweated blood

And still the sickly buggers lurk

Skulking down there in the mud.

Your vines are fine

Unlike mine

Don't like to whine

But I think I'll find

That wizened grapes make wizened  wine.

Your cordon-trained plum trees

Are splendidly spread 

Along their sun-blessed wall

My drupes droop 

And the fruit

If they fruit at all,

Is enjoyed by the wasps

My cauliflower and radish

Have been thoroughly ravaged

By herds of munching molluscs

Your complacent brassica grows

In plump and serried rows.

Mine are tattered and torn

Wind-battered and worn

And quite frankly, bollocks.

Your plants are much tougher

Your plot doesn't suffer

From conventional garden diseases

A gardening guru

And by that, I mean you

Can grow any damn plant that he pleases..

But it's really not fair

That you don't have your share

Of hostile assaults from the air

Your air-raid defences

Like your slug-proof fences

Are meticulously prepared.

While my lettuces succumbed

Each and every bloody one

To those pretty white-winged lepidoptera 

With each gentle breeze

There floats down from my trees

An ariel assault of helicoptera.

And so while your fine garden

Responds to your ardent

And lovingly nurturing touch

My gardening scene

Has left me quite green

With envy that festers and lingers....

And while it would seem

That I've mostly turned green

It's not reached

Quite as far

As my fingers..

© nigel hallworth 2021