The garden looks at me with ill disguised contempt
The grass grows long with disapproval
A broken wheelbarrow rusts under the tree
Impatient for its own (never-going-to-happen) removal.
The flowerbeds look sick with hate
The daffodils nod in mute condemnation
The potted plants and vegetable patch
Are demanding an immediate explanation.
The cat quietly tells me I’m a twat.
John Bleasdale is a writer. His work has appeared in The Guardian, The Independent, Il Manifesto, as well as CineVue.Com and theStudioExec.com. He has also written a number of plays, screenplays and novels.