On some nights

when pressure is low

we fear to revive

dying plants

lest supply runs out.

No new handouts.


We no longer know

what to do for the best.

All that still grows

are those that

strangle and exploit,

or send out thorns.


What will remain

of this garden

is brambles

and bindweed.

Even in this heat

we dread the cold to come.



◄ King's Cross

I wouldn't go down to the sea today ►


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Greg Freeman

Mon 15th Aug 2022 23:24

Thanks for your comments, Graham and Steve. Well, these are certainly arid times, for sure. The rain hasn't reached us yet. Thanks for the Likes, Frederick, Julie, Stephen, Holden, and John.

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Stephen Gospage

Mon 15th Aug 2022 16:31

It's true, Greg. When the brambles give up, we will have real problems. A fine, dry piece.

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Graham Sherwood

Mon 15th Aug 2022 11:04

There’s a parched essence to this piece Greg, accurately depicting the title. Perhaps a new genre of Arid Poetry?
Drove up to Brittany yesterday in torrential rain. The bubble has burst here but gladly warm and dry today.
We gardeners are never happy are we? My daughter sent us a photo of our raised beds asking if the salad leaves were weeds!!! duh!
Love the middle verse 🌵🌿🍃

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