Mow ye grass if wet’s

Forecast; if dry it’s to be,

Just watch more TV.

Tired gardeners dig

Deep, in fading light, before

Calling it a night.

Sit down. Cup of tea.

This is where she loves to be.

On her allotment.

Enlightened gardens

With nettles for butterflies

And dark deep green soups.

On edges of towns

Garden centres abound, and

Attract the grey pound.

Trying to garden.

Weather's foul. So I give up

And throw in the trowel. 

Ivy looks splendid

On my wall; but I'm worried

She may slip and fall.