As I make my way
to the greenhouses
a seagull kills me in its pure white throat.
Quiet in the tomatoes.
Quiet among the beans.
Soft dark patches where the rain leaks in.
Can I come home?
Has it been too long?
Tall weeds growing through the coils of hose.

Get Britain's best politics newsletters
Register to get The Spectator's insight and opinion straight to your inbox. You can then read two free articles each week.
Already a subscriber? Log in
Comments
Join the debate for just $5 for 3 months
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for $5.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just $5 for 3 monthsAlready a subscriber? Log in