Plot 44a

Daniel Fraser

Our allotment was only a half-plot.

We rented it and then left after one season.

Blackfly got the beans, turned each plant

into a rotting chandelier.

Peas flailed in the debris-littered soil.

The plum tree was a wasp nursery.

My shed is still there—just. Its pitched roof

stands harebrained, the tarpaper peels.

Light has bleached out the chicken-coloured

plywood. The door is twisted.

Dust and seeds rise over the dry board.

Inside, only the suffocated breathe:

stinking bulbs, the milk of rot. Spores eat

at the crates and shoots.

Blades rust, redden; the years make each

wound crawl back to its source.

I go down, sometimes, just to sit.

Spider skeletons hang from the shrunken

rafters, the desiccated hands

of puppeteers caught in their strings.

The webs dangle, still catch flies.

Their plans have outlived them.

DANIEL FRASER is a poet and critic from Yorkshire, living in West Cork. His work can be found in: The London Magazine, Poetry Ireland, Poetry London and elsewhere. He is currently completing his first collection with an award from the Arts Council (Ireland).