In my small but safe allotment

I’ve murdered all the weeds

while every plant left standing knows

I’ll tender to their needs –

 

yes, lettuces and runner beans

will rise into the air

knowing no obstacle can stop

their self-expression there

 

till plump and ready to be plucked

from earth or bamboo, fate

determining their destiny’s

fulfilled upon my plate.

 

How blessed is man, to have a place

atop the feeding chain.

Others eat each other but

avoid us, in the main –

 

and lions and other predators

are rarely to be found

here where leeks and rhubarb

thrive on sacred ground.




First published in HQ Poetry Magazine, Number 49