Greenhouse (Poetry)

His space — the muslin-tented crèche held close
its mix of smells — earth, sweat and chemicals —
where hours spent slow-teasing into bloom
those progeny he labelled as his own
grew perfect in that temperate regime
show-winners — every year more of the same.

It was his church — the closest he gould get
to Art’s creation — nurturing a stem
to flourish in a season — swell a bud
then let it burst in sudden flowering
safe from rain and wild destructive squall
pampered shoots — he fathered one and all.

Sometimes allowed to play a novice rôle
the ceremony silent but for sighs
mixing soil for potting-on — such care
he took with every plant — I envied them
his rapt attention coaxing out the best
while I withered back, unsure of my own root.

That greenhouse stood through hurricanes as though
its whited roof protected sacred ground
while others in the neighbourhood fell foul
of storm and hail — I’d see him moving through
his shadow thrown. Those growing days long-past
casting private spells behind stained glass.