Harvest
You weed out the tubs, toss the rich peat.
Dig drills. Wait for the seeds to un-sleep.
Radishes, spring onions, fennel from a friend.
Answer now the urge to self-sooth, soul-mend.
In one pot pinch them out to give ground,
there they burgeon, little up-starts, proud.
The private turn in you at last to follow growth through.
Sun-blasted April. Skies a paint-pot blue.
Why annihilate your nurture with lack of watering?
Let life sink incomplete. Presage disaster.
Put the same pains in as at the start.
Break historic self-sabotage and finally, yes, self-master.
Not let the good work go to waste.
Those years you furrowed but failed to taste.