Brief (allotment) Encounter

"My word, you've got a lot of weeds"

she said. Cheeky so-and-so !

"Of course" I said "I grow them for compost.

Everyone here does. Didn't you know?"

"Oh" she muttered. Exit deflated lady.

(Well, only a little lie as lies go)

Young women filled the tiny dance floor

rocking and rolling to the beat,

beauty shining with more and more

smiles and laughter on rhythmic feet.

But strange that none of them have men

hovering by, coming and going.

Too many surely for a hen party,

bridal sash and maids not showing.

And then it hit me - the entrance quids,

a charity name discreetly labelled !

Their men are home looking after the kids

at least one of whom will be disabled.

So now the scene becomes much darker.

The women here must all be plucky,

dealing with problems in a life much starker -

the yummy mummies who birthed unlucky.

When those expensive garden centre flowers

have flourished, bloomed, shrivelled and died,

self-sown hollyhocks, nasturtiums,

marigolds have survived.