The Plants in a Skipton Concrete Yard
The chives are xenophobes.
They dig their roots in deeper every year
and have taken over their tub.
The courgette is an exchange student from France.
She is blossoming as hard as she can.
She has always wanted to be a ballerina, sees herself
leaping about the stage in a yellow tutu.
The rosemary is the grandmother. Her thin leaves
pursed, she tells the courgette: For heaven’s sake.
You’re not in Paris now.
The basil is unhappy because
he is unaccustomed to grey skies in summer.
He is turning a little brown at the edges
and dreams of moving away,
to the Cote d’Azur perhaps,
with the courgette on his arm.
And then there’s the mint. Frilly
and spoiled, she insinuates herself
through the pour-spout
into everybody’s cup of tea.