Poetry

Liz McQuilkin: Garden Talk

Garden Talk   He’s forgotten to empty me, says the wheelbarrow. He hasn’t fed us our scraps, say the compost worms. He’s left us covered in mud, say the size ten gumboots. He dropped his rake on my coils, says the dormant hose.   I want a jetspray clean, says the shaded terrace. We too could do with a scrub, say the porch and steps. We’re longing for seedlings, say the earthen pots. I’m parched in spite of rain, says the passion-fruit vine.   I don’t need mowing yet, says the new-sown lawn. We’ve finished the pruning now, say the…

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