My Grandfather’s Greenhouse

Written 27/09/2017.
For Terry C.R. Evans, 1937–2007.

It is at times like these
I am reminded of my grandfather’s
greenhouse.

Stepping over the threshold
and feeling the warmth,
Feeling the sun filter into
that cramped, glass room —
if there was sun, that is.
And if there was light
(There almost never was.)
It came through the remnants of vine
still atop the roof,
The lingering evidence of
the old man’s try at grapes.
(We called it “growing raisins”.)

And the smell!
What a smell it was:
The mulchy, heavy scent
of heated compost,
The ozone smell-taste of the heat iself,
and supporting the rest,
The florid, green power
of the leaves themselves,
All growing together.

Tomatoes and cucumbers grew up high,
Clinging to wooden rods, supports,
And when I think of them
I…