Having sex in the allotments
was not entirely my idea,
I would have preferred something a little less al fresco,
though darkness covered our modesty
And in truth there was not much to see,
as darkness had laid a cold trowel
over our tumescence.
My main consciousness
was of not being really dressed for it.
You were better at it than me
readily using a cold frame
to drape your clothes over,
not minding the smell of compost
and apparently impervious to cold.
For me it took on the
quality of midwinter dips in the sea at Brighton,
austere and bonkers at the same time,
the courage of winter flowering jasmine,
of spring cabbage
thrusting green through a sprinkling of snow,
and half understood horticultural phrases
like hardening off and pricking out
came to mind.
© James Nash [Coma Songs 2003, 2006]