Alison Dyer

Old Gardens

Old gardens are smelled before they’re seen.
thin drafts of lilac
between long grasses.

Old gardens draw memories from the ground.
Rippling the earth, potato drills
bedded under a strata of sorrel.

Old gardens sigh of long trips to the cellar.
Caved in and cupboards bare,
ignored of archeological importance.

Old gardens are felt before they’re seen.
A web of roots, a knot of turf,
Worms grow succulent, free of prodding steel.

Old gardens do not wait, but
thrive on old compost, new rain,
breed botanical anarchy.

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