The garden,
That I can see from the downstairs bathroom,
As I scrub the toilet down
Even though it’s your turn on the rota,
Is starting to spill over.

The vines,
That creep up the walls
Have started to strangle my roses,
Choking their little necks
Until their petals turn grey and fall off.

The gardening tools
Are still scattered among the plants.
A trowel peeks out through the gnarled
Snail-eaten edges of leaves.
The thing that looks like a large gardening fork
Has fallen over the paved path,
With four spikes
Pointing at me
In accusation.

I asked you to tidy up
To finish the beds we were planning,
So that I could plant the tulip bulbs
That still sit in the bike shed
That you almost built in November.
I just want to make it pretty, I said.
But what’s the point of flowers
When the house is still a wreck?
Why plant something new
When there’s so much else to fix?
You said as you ate curry in front of the TV.