Passing the allotments at North Sheen

by Christian Ward

Pudding cups of white bindweed flowers

by the railway tracks plan a distraction

away from wild blackberries and ivy leaves

turning a shade of mulled wine.

Whatever was planted will wait:

The climbing runner beans

will have to pause mid-climb,

scarecrow heads of pumpkins

will have to scare the earth a little longer.

This is the vote of the unseen community.

This is what their unseen hands, elaborate

as henna, vast and complex as a tributary

have decided.

Perhaps I'll put this scene

between the pages of a heavy book

to preserve it, watch it Polaroid

my room on those difficult days

when I feel heavier than the soil

turning underneath my feet.

This is the community I need.