The Garden (4)

Why, you ask, when the water settles on the walls, And mould springs up either way. The little buggers will only reappear On the shower curtain Or along the skirting board. What’s the point tidying up the mess When it will keep growing back?

The garden, That I can no longer see As I pull my bags through the living room, Over the mess of clothes and pizza boxes That surround the television –

The garden, That is foremost in my head, As I struggle out of the front door, My suitcase taking another chip away from the paintwork –

The garden, That I think of As I pile the entirety of my possessions Into the boot of my father’s car Is overgrowing While I drive away.