The allotment on Sunday afternoon,
Dad trusted us with secateurs to prune,
In those days, the whole family would go,
Armed with tools, we’d begin to hoe and sow.
We fought brambles and stubborn, tangled weeds,
Planted a multitude of tiny seeds,
Lit bonfires as high as the Eiffel tower,
Passed many splendid, industrious hours.
Yet dangers lurked while we gathered our feast,
The iron gate’s bolt was a savage beast,
Pinched fingers, and gave a huge blood blister,
We wailed: me; my big brother and sister.
Ancient forks pierced into rubber wellies,
Got scratched picking berries for our bellies,
Revolting maggots crawled from green pea pods,
As rusty nails emerged from thick mud clods.
Yet, jewels were discovered through sun and rain,
We found a fledging trembling in a drain,
We dragged a rusty bike out of the stream,
Once washed and polished, it worked like a dream.
5/4/2026
The Words That Got to Me
Pinched fingers, and gave a huge blood blister, Ancient forks pierced into rubber wellies Rusty nails emerged from thick mud clods. all were certainly not enjoyable things, in fact, they were down right dangerous, as was the gate. but you learned and were aware.
I don't know how old you are, but back in my growing up years we weren't as protected as young people are today . My mom wasn't uncaring by any means, but we usually learned by experience, and my Dad was either at his office, seeing patients, making house calls after work, or rounds at the hospital at night, so we didn't see much of him on a daily basis for advice. "At the Allotments" was a mystifying title to me, and really still is, although I guess, growing up, you kids had certain responsibilities expected of you--to handle--I think, is the meaning. I think we probably learned and remembered more from experience, than maybe today's more protected kids.