Greenhouse
It's the smell that lingers
longest in the memory.
Opening the sliding bolt
to a deep, rich, earth scent
of Solanum lycopersicum
stealing through the creaking door.
The visceral urge to pluck the shiny
fruit from its slender stem.
To rip through the outer layer
and let the juice flow. Consume
it all; seeds, flesh and skin.
Just to smell the richness
of the fruit, close-up,
the mustiness of leaves, vine, soil
was reward enough.
It had been a long wait, from the first
tiny fruits, through green to ripe red.
Scattered around the jungle of plants;
pruning shears, a small trowel,
a larger trowel, screws and nails,
nuts and bolts, a metal watering can.
An old cracked pane of glass
propped against the guinea pig cage.
The pair of scrabbling creatures,
protected from the northern
chill in colder months,
chirping approval as I feed them.
One day, as I stopped to say hello
on the way to school
I found one lying, unmoving,
eyes glazed.
Grandad added his tobacco smell
to the mix; leaning over
to confirm that it was dead.
He told me not to worry and to go to school.
When I came back, it was gone.
Tim Fellows 2019
Image by Irini Adler from Pixabay
