There are bald patches in my garden
while I am awaiting delivery
of seed and plug plants chosen, with care,
from the electronic garden centres
that allow me access to more than my
local, parochial, offerings.
Watching Chelsea Flower Show, I see
my choices recurring in show medal
gardens, ponder the process whereby
this information, this fashion, travels
like weeds through the tastes of gardeners
everywhere, linked through the media,
through tv, through blogging and Twitter.
And even as I write, they arrive,
treasures beautifully boxed, happy
plants. I ignore the drizzle to find
fork and trowel, to dig holes and to plant.