but perhaps the most hopeful of the year.
A layer of snow is not a warm blanket
for tubers that die when winter's severe.
It seems the banker is not a gardener
or even a proper poet at first,
more of an urban sermoniser
whose bleak dystopian images burst
upon a literary audience
romanticised for generations
by flowery verbiage so dense
it did indeed need pruning stations.
He led us all up the garden path
dispensing with the use of rhyme
in favour of the ice cold bath
of incongruous images all the time.
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