Gift Of Salad Leaves

The gift orbits past oak giants,
where outer darkness between park and fence,
conceals a donation of tender growth.
Through nebulous tendrils and a rough bark way,
it steals in order to give,
steel resolve annealed by soft reason,
quiet incursion into mildew, lichen and
a gently rotting larch lap gate,
to find twig tips and dumps of dandelion,
waiting to be slopped out,
unwanted orphans, surplus florae,
sullied leaves in death black bags.
The gift is slipping into rubbish, living largesse,
surreptitious salad by stealth,
a goodwill trespass,
parting overgrown grasses
before departing and awaiting discovery.
Hope you like Komatsuma
and the little life of each brave blade,
pale green fragile generosity
but as vigorous as any ivy or convolvulus,
packed pots, brimming plastic pots,
lewd tongues, leaping lap cats,
delightful, fresh, crisp potful’s.
Quick, before rabbits clamber,
before caterpillars claim,
slugs soil, badgers despoil,
lay waste to delicate Mizune.

The harvest is for the friendship of your house
and to make space for more in the shed.

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