Day Thirteen


Everyday we go to the windowsill

to check the potatoes lined up,

faces tilted to the light.


What is chitted? You ask again

I describe the white translucent

shoots reaching out ready


to be doused in soil and wrapped

snugly in the warm earth

to dig in toes and stretch out fingers.


Once again we’re disappointed.

Where is the spring? Where is the chits?

you demand, thwarted.


They’re coming I soothe and prophesise

with no evidence except experience.

Soon darling, soon.






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