Their bungalow seemed

to grow out of the ground.

The garden was big enough

to lose himself in.

 

While grandchildren marched

importantly in and out of sheds,

Dad took me on a tour of his empire

that terminated at the compost bins.

 

Ran leaf mould through his fingers,

exulting at what he’d created,

the miracle of degradation,

black gold. It’s life that matters, son, 

 

he used to say, with urgency. 

Late at night he spoke

of wartime captivity, reckoning

I’d reached an age to understand.

 

Laughed at the way mum played

Monopoly, tears coursed his cheeks.

Once, when Match of the Day came on,

while eating a banana he danced a jig.