M. Dubois’s Bread and Butter
He tells them it's too soon to plant
but they desire Robinia - demand them now.
Money says they can have what they want.
The Mintoffs watch and yawn,
flick olive pips on the manicured lawn,
swirl the scotch, chink the ice.
Soft hands loiter in the lap,
flip brochures, map futures,
thumb for leisure at any price.
M. Dubois thrusts the blade,
cuts the sods, banks the rich loam
to one side, investing solidly in his labour,
he savours the earthy scent of soil,
the salty sweat, the flex and stretch,
the hard currency of toil.
He teases roots - backfills - heels in.
He would have planted fruits,
an orchard of apricot, Burlat cherry,
Golden Gage, Reine Claude for jam,
but they don’t pay for his opinion,
M. Dubois is a beggarly minion.
Tonight he’ll drink his plum wine health,
eat his tomatoes warm from the vine,
bake new raised dough in the old wood stove.
M. Dubois sleeps as sound as a pound,
rolls in the bounty of his nurtured wealth
dreams sweet dreams of his pots of gold.
Published by Obsessed With Pipework no. 71