The silence of the stifling heated day,
Punctuated by the steady rhythmic thump
Of the burnished blade slicing into the sun-baked earth,
Breaking nuggets of soil like marble chippings.
The shock shooting up through the worn ash handle
Still bearing his Grandfather's initials
Would travel up my arm, jarring it to the socket.
And with my brow seared by the sun,I would silently curse
And warily look up to see if my Father was watching.
Instead he would be standing, arm outstretched
Plucking Runner beans from the avenues of lush green
And I would listen to the rattle of them landing in the trug.
Dusk drawing near, he would examine his watch
And I the domed blisters on my palms,
Wondering why the other children
Were allowed to play on the weekend.
Jealously I would eye the other lads
Racing past the allotment gates on push-bikes,
Screaming their freedom at the cloudless skies.
I and my brothers would wearily put spades and forks,
Carefully scraped clean, into the boot of his car
Before squeezing into the back seat.
The interior a smothering furnace of heat
With vinyl seats that scorched our legs
Would be joined by stale pipe smoke making us retch.
Homeward bound we would sit in silence,
Looking forward to tea and sympathy from Mother
And the safety of school.
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