what turns up is not

always what we expect


among the new potatoes

cranberry glass    sharded

porcelain     the banded trunks

rattling like teeth in steerage &

England’s vanishing coast

a fond green smear


in the kitchen garden

a necklace restrings itself

gradually     thirties silver

grubbed from this mingy soil


what sort of epitaph in

these thin     bright droplets

soil turned beyond powder

   foundation stones in this garden

   refusing to give way

   go down