3. The Plot

Discreet blue flowers border
his garden. In the bosky dark
he spades. Effortlessly the clods
fly & with white hands he pats
the trench walls. Next door’s lights
go on. Those Chinese brothers
no doubt dialling the street.
When the latch to the rear door
clicks, their mother emerges,
trowel in hand, a sham gardener,
her wan face soaring the fence
like a moon. Tonight, perhaps?

@ianjmclachlan