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.