The nasturtiums have gone,
razed away to the sunlight.
A polytunnel deflated
lies in the shed.
Nettles have had their say,
erecting like city tower blocks
built on the palm of ignorance.
The garden waist has expanded.
Fence joints left to rot, tubs
sit like forgotten park benches.
Next year I need to get back,
turn over the skin, bring in some
youth. Create a piece of earth
that patches the wounds I’ve let widen.
Gareth Culshaw lives in Wales. He is an aspiring writer who hopes one day to achieve something special with the pen.