His garden is profuse. It grows grossly,
stretches, in greens and violets and turquoise,
flashed by dog rose and honeysuckle, all kinds
of shrub and flowering life, wild and intentional.
Gregory is mooching, potting out, part of the day,
in the wreck of what was once a summer-house,
his gazebo on West Wales. He lays tomato slices
on a bed of compost. (Yes, they’ll take, he saw that
on an online site). He has a grapevine cutting too
(Dai Thomas recommended this), to be embedded
out of the wind, the roughest soil will do.
Greg’s brother from Australia sits in the window,
savouring the sunshine, tea, the leaf of the place,
the Rich Tea biscuits, Herald Sun Online,
some twenty yards from Greg. He photographs him
(white head beyond the blue hydrangea bush),
posts it on Facebook for the Adelaide crowd.
By evening, it has thirty-seven likes.
Robert Nisbet is a Pembrokeshire poet who likes gardens and West Wales gardens in particular.