Poems From the Potting Shed

by Lynne Roberts

out the safety vests

  And tell the wife to make the smoko – muffins are the best

  Another call to check that my spray diary’s up to date

  I’m rushing as I see the pickers driving in the gate

  They’re giving me some funny looks, I’m feeling very stressed

  I am still in my pyjamas – I’ve forgotten to get dressed!

  Blooming Cheek

  The kitchen was muddled, the bathroom a mess

  There were patches of potting mix spilt on my dress

  There was dirt on my hands and twigs in my hair

  The grass needed mowing but I didn’t care

  There was even green mould on the floor of the shower

  But - my Baroness Rothschild was starting to flower

  My mailbox was stuffed full with junk mail and bills

  There was grime on the windows and dust on the sills

  With the carpet disgraceful, the vinyl was worse

  A half-eaten sandwich had died in my purse

  Wet clothes and bath towels festooned every room

  But - Gloire Lyonnnaise had just come into bloom

  My husband’s Aunt Millicent came round to tea

  She rang to inform me she’d be there at three

  She’s old and she’s fussy and house proud to boot

  She always finds fault but I don’t give a hoot

  The cake tins were empty the milk had gone sour

  But - La Reine Victoria started to flower

  Aunt Millicent said my house ought to be clean

  Not blooming likely, I cried with a scream

  On Aphids I’m expert, at pruning I’m great

  The merits of compost I’m keen to debate

  Gallicas, Albas and Damasks mean more

  Than a shiny, scrubbed kitchen or clean tidy floor

  I’ll work in the garden for hour after hour

  Look – Chapeau De Napoleon’s starting to flower.

  Aunt Millicent left with a sigh and a frown

  But as she departed she paused and turned round

  And furtively glancing behind her she crept

  To the shed where the spade and the clippers were kept

  Softly on tiptoe she reached to the top

  Of Anais Segales and snipped a piece off

  Then running from shrub rose to rambler she went

  Pausing only to sniff Belle De Crecy’s sweet scent

  So the next Spring I went to Aunt Millicent’s place

  She was covered in dirt, with a smile on her face

  Her house was a mess but she stood in a bower

  Of pink Maiden’s Blush - which was starting to flower!

  Chain Reaction

  We had an ageing pine tree at the corner of the yard

  It grew so large it blocked out all our view

  My husband said he’d cut it down, it wouldn’t be too hard

  There’s nothing that a chainsaw cannot do

  We had to fence a paddock and construct another gate

  We ordered in some wood and hinges too

  My husband said he’d build it, it would be a piece of cake

  There’s nothing that a chainsaw cannot do

  We liked the new varieties, decided that we’d tender

  We filled out forms and quickly joined the queue

  As others slaved with knives to graft my husband laughed and said

  There’s nothing that a chainsaw cannot do

  With all the grafting done we inside to have a meal

  I tried to chop a pumpkin for a stew

  I couldn’t get the knife in so my husband said he’d help

  There’s nothing that a chainsaw cannot do

  My husband’s socks had holes in as his toenails grew too long

  They stuck out till they pressed upon his shoe

  I handed him the scissors but he scoffed at them and said

  There’s nothing that a chainsaw cannot do

  My husband crawled out to the shed to get a pine tree branch

  He set to work with sandpaper and glue

  Now he proudly walks around on two stout wooden legs

  There’s nothing that a chainsaw cannot do

  Christmas

  Christmas is coming

  I’ve cards to be writing

  But it’s such a lovely fine day

  David and I will pack up hats and mallets

  And go for a game of croquet

  Christmas is coming

  I’ve cakes to be baking

  And puddings and pies to be made

  But I’m off with my belly dance ladies to walk

  In the local town Christmas parade

  Christmas is coming

  I’ve presents to wrap

  And plates to be painted and fired

  But after two parties and walking the donkeys

  I think I am now far too tired

  Christmas is coming

  I must clean the cobwebs

  And vacuum and shake out the mats

  They are covered in tinsel that’s come off the tree

  The grandchildren helped me with that

  Christmas is coming

  Each day it gets closer

  I thought I had plenty of time

  But the time ran away in each long, busy day

  So I sat down and wrote down this rhyme

  Confessions of a Gardener

  The Noxious Weeds Inspector came to visit me last week

  For the AGM of Garden Club, we'd asked him here to speak

  He proceeded to enlighten us, with photographs of weeds

  Of what we should not propagate by cuttings or by seeds

  This list of plants was rather long and to my great dismay

  Included much of what was in my garden, on display

  He started with erigeron, and said, I don't suppose

  You knew this was a banned plant when you put in all those rows.

  I noticed wandering willy spreading underneath those trees

  They're buddlia! By this time I could tell he wasn't pleased

  Lantana is a shocking pest, he glowered as he spoke

  And when he saw my privet hedge, it nearly made him choke

  He glared at the pergola where the morning glory climbs

  And nearly had a heart attack at my clematis vine

  He frowned at my asparagus and thriving ladder ferns

  And tore his hair and shouted, Will you people never learn?

  And look, you have five hectares of the biggest weed out there