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Holding a packet of seeds

I read ‘broad beans’

and tearing off the top I pour them into my hand

where they lie

brown and leathery like miniature purses

filled only with hope

for who would believe inside each withered case

is the makings

of a green and leafy stalk

and flowers


when visited by a bee

will set and behind each falling flower

a tiny pod

and growing all the while

till four or five plump beans

are ready for my plate.


I lay them one by one

reverently into the soft damp soil

if there is a prayer

to start them on their journey

I have already said it with my wonder.