Untried Poem by Janet Budd

Untried

Rating: 5.0


Those wellies in the shed, remain in their place, unmoved, untried, left exactly where I left them.

He says, ‘They don’t seem right’

He prefers the work dog steelies from his working days. They make him feel the gardening worthwhile, not a retired man’s hobby, not a waste a day pastime.

The way be puts those steelies through their paces you’d expect potatoes, peas and parsnips served up from his spade, but you’d be wrong. His labour is to lift the rose to its highest state.

Balletically he dances secateurs through thorn, by branch, down stem, finding the right spot, excises, executes reverently, precisely.

He’d leave the house at dawn, never miss a day. Return for tea, his tools his boots he’d quietly put away. Never spoke of his mundane.

I picture him, all those years of having a grace I never knew existed. He kept me out then and today still keeps me put away. Like those brand new wellies. Unmoved, untried, in my place.

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