The White Arch

Two houses up, old Eddie died last week

and a man I’ve never seen before

is throwing things into the garden

from the back door: a cardboard box, black plastic bags,

a broken kitchen chair.


The garden isn’t much, but Eddie had laid a path,

hollowed a goldfish pond, sown

a rockery with alpine flowers,

and, down the garden’s end, curved

a white concrete arch


balanced on red brick piles,

a sort of giant cartoon magnet

that only town foxes step through

from the nettle patch that Eddie left

‘for luck, for butterflies’.