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One constant in a world of variables

- A man alone in the evening in his patch of vegetables,

and all the things he takes down with him there

Where the easement runs along the back fence and the air

smells of tomato-vines, and the hoarse rasping tendrils

of pumpkin flourish clumsy whips and their foliage sprawls

Over the compost-box, poising rampant upon

the palings ...

He stands there, lost in a green

confusion, smelling the smoke of somebody's rubbish

Burning, hearing vaguely the clatter of a disk

in a sink that could be his, hearing a dog, a kid,

a far whisper of traffic, and offering up instead

Not much but as much as any man can offer

- time, pain, love, hate, age, ware, death, laughter, fever.

By Donald Bruce Dawe

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