This man doesn’t protect his vegetables
When the nights are long and dark.
Instead, he lets the potatoes succumb to cold,
The rhubarb freeze to frost and the kale leaves
Exposed, crisp for the caterpillars.
Whilst we cover our crops with tarpaulin,
Thick blankets for the broad beans,
Barricades for the broccoli,
He stands over his soil, arms folded,
With this thousand mile stare to the far rolling hills
Rich in thick brush and tall trees,
He believes, in his own romantic way,
“Whatever grows will grow.
If not today, then tomorrow.”