When I came that first spring day,
endeavouring to tame
your mother's raucous excuse
for a garden.
I planned to trim and rake and hoe;
dig and fertilise and sow
but unexpectedly you showed,
came out to help
me.

You were supposed to be practising.

I felt intensely ashamed,
oddly awkward with spade,
wildly willed bizarre escape,
felt that awful pull to dissociate

but
fought
it.

Usual technique
of thrusting sharp blade deep,
utterly deserted me
as I stood flushed
and gripped tool
in confusion.

As for springing
pogo-stick-style
with usual mild smile
driving slicing tool hard
- oh, impossible,
impossible,

now.

Mortified to be caught
sweaty-stained in grubby shorts
one bra strap adrift,
I wished you well away, though
it was
the only

time.

You never said
a word,
requisitioned spade and machete-ed,
hacked at soil
for all your worth,
showered yourself in clods of dirt -
you were totally bloody hopeless -

but I loved
you

for it.