For the Shedmen of Wandsworth
It’s the month of great hunkering
Winter, grey and skinny, loiters
Like a hoodie round the corner
With his pisshead mate Christmas
The Shedmen fist their mugs of tea
As sweet and brown as the allotment
Where they sit on good spade days
Hunched in busted plastic chairs
Banished from marital patios
The Shedmen mustn’t grumble
Between retreat and armistice
They hint at bold escape plans
In their voluntary Colditz
Watched by poplars still as sentries
The Shedmen poke the idle smoke
From bonfires that can’t be arsed
To rage or dance flamenco
Stoking up dreams that smoulder
In the green damp snapping fire
Yet still they believe – in rhubarb
Swiss chard and monogamy –
Folding each sodden day back
Into itself with loam and hoe
In sombre geometry
Shortlisted for the 2013 Charles Causley Prize
Mark Fiddes 