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GREEN FINGER DAYS
It sits propped against another,
old Tom's haven,
where tobacco smoke swirled
and stories grew taller,
where cans of lager were shared
with old buddies that survived
the wrath of war, and returned
to marry sweethearts waiting,
almost too afraid to love so much
it hurt.
Friendly rivalry, hidden tactics
all taken in good heart, along with
boyish banter, filled this now
dismantled shed, still clinging
to happy moments and the lingering
aroma of Drum enjoyed somewhere
his good lady couldn't moan,
this was the allotment clubhouse,
this was Tom's little piece of heaven.
Dismantled but going to a good home,
where a grieving son will press his nose
against the pine cladding,
reaching out to the greatest Dad in the world
whose green finger days are done.
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