Today’s poem

Retirement had left me with time on my hands And although I’d never had one before, I took over a local allotment But, where to start, I just wasn’t sure.

I purchased a spade, hoe and dibber, And a watering can complete with a rose, A wheelbarrow, seed trays, fertiliser, And Monty Don’s book on how a plant grows.

My allotment hadn’t been dug in a century. The thistles grew way past my throat. There were nettles and bindweed, ivy and grass. I didn’t need a mower — I needed a goat!

I bravely laboured with the spade Until it brought on a sharp pain in my knee. After my arms and my back gave out, I knew I needed a JCB.

I’m not one to be easily beaten, And finally, I released a small patch of soil. But, sadly, the spring weather was freezing And the summer was one on the boil.

The horticultural show loomed on the horizon. ‘I really must enter something,’ I said. Yet, out of all the seeds that I’d planted, Only one brave cabbage had raised its head.

Despite its slug holes and whitefly, I was proud of the cabbage I’d grown. It had fought its way through the bindweed, It was small, but I couldn’t moan.

On show day I felt quite excited As I took my cabbage into the hall.

It had been a bad year for cultivating veggies, Most hadn’t grown well at all.

The table allocated for brassicas Was empty apart from a sprout. I was the only entrant with a cabbage, So a first prize wasn’t in doubt.

My lonely cabbage sat on the table, And this is going to sound quite absurd, For when I went back to collect my certificate The judge had only awarded me a third!

I no longer have the allotment And will never enter another horticultural show. The cabbage was tasty (I cooked it), But ’twas the first and last one that I’d grow.

Anita Bass, Theydon Bois, Essex.