Polytunnel

Mother, Mum. I am with you in the polytunnel,
where everything fades.
I am with you in the polytunnel,
where you work and nurture.
I am with you in the polytunnel,
where the only element is the sun.
I am with you,
in the dirt beneath your fingernails,
in the sweat on your brow.
Mother, Mum. I am with you in the polytunnel,
where you slide the world away.
I am with you in the polytunnel,
where you shelter,
where you can see, but not feel
the driving West coast rain.
Mother, Mum. I am with you.
I am with you, in the polytunnel.
I am the tiny plant, in a tiny pot
that you gently pinch at its base
and ease loose,
ready for a new home.
I am with you, Mum.
I am with you in the polytunnel
where no-one else is allowed.
I am with you in the polytunnel,
where you control the rain.
I am with you, growing
although, or perhaps because, you refuse to read the rules
but simply plant seeds and hope.
Mother, Mum. I am with you in the polytunnel,
where my wine is the perfect temperature.
I am with you in the polytunnel
where our voices and our thoughts
are sealed under a giant, plastic shell.
I am with you in the polytunnel,
whenever I can be.
I am with you when you harvest.
I am with you when you delight in your success,
despite the days when you walked by,
tired.
I am with you, Mum.
Even when we have to be elsewhere.
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