Their love on the allotment bloomed in early Spring

This was a lasting passion, no fleeting seasonal fling

The seeds of it were scattered in an afternoon of planting

Which concluded in Myfanwy’s shed with groans and furtive panting

 

While Carwyn sowed his sunflower seeds she tended to his plums

They shared a packet of McVities best, nibbling on the crumbs

When Spring turned into summer there were sundowners by the shed

As the pair of star-crossed lovers admired their cuttings bed

 

They held hands across the irises and watched the dahlias grow

Pruning hybrids expertly they shared a rosy glow

The other allotment holders were forced to avert their glances

As Myfanwy enraptured Carwyn with her exotic dances

 

“What’s up with them? Their runner beans have completely gone to pot

The raspberry canes are overgrown, has Carwyn lost the plot?

He used to keep things tidy, in rows so straight and neat

Now Myfanwy’s got his asparagus, she’s swept him off his feet”

 

His courgettes are frankly ludicrous, the way they’ve grown so big

And as for that Myfanwy one, she couldn’t give a fig

She’s brassy with her brassicas and her toms are red like cherries

Carwyn’s quite beside himself when she plucks his loganberries

 

She’s a little on the weighty side, a heavy early cropper

No shrinking violet, Myfanwy, when she starts it’s hard to stop her

Still, they seem quite happy with their self-sufficient ways

Now they’re pricking out their seedlings and transplanting them from trays

 

I saw them round the compost heap, with hot steam slowly rising

She’d got him in a jujitsu hold which was somewhat surprising

Carwyn’s not a big man, more capsicum than marrow

Myfanwy flipped him on his back and onto her wheelbarrow

 

She’s quite a forceful lady and her inhibitions are long gone

When she’s harvesting her cucumbers she thinks of Monty Don

It’s not easy for Carwyn, a man of seventy-five

To keep Myfanwy happy and to keep himself alive

 

The pair of them are snuggled up now that winter’s here

Myfanwy has her port and lemon, Carwyn has his beer

The artichokes have sprouted

They were worthy of a prize

Convention has been flouted

With Maris Piper eyes

The turnips have been lifted

The spuds are balls of flour

Chitted onions have been sifted

Day by day and hour by hour

Carwyn eyes Myfanwy with amorous intent

Not now Carwyn darling

I’m resting now, ‘til Lent.