Note: this is perhaps my most strictly structured work. Each stanza consists of 5 lines with the number of syllables in each line repeated throughout – a regular pattern. However, the rhyme is atypical in that the first and last lines rhyme and there is an added rhyme in the fourth line. The third line is short and quick, providing a break between the narrative in the first two and last two lines.

 

At first I thought gardening would be fun,

When I’d watched the chap on the telly,

Chatting and laughing;

Sowing a few seeds, pulling a few weeds,

Having a cup of tea when it’s done.

 

I thought I’d apply for a job in parks:

The chap at the office seemed pleasant,

Chatting and laughing;

Both fixing our ties, telling a few lies.

Came out quite pleased, like I’d scored full marks.

 

It was seven miles to where I’d report,

On my bike and all of it uphill;

Puffing and panting.

That first working day, right up there at Haigh,

Wasn’t anything close to what I’d thought.

 

The other recruits seemed nice friendly chaps;

Eddy Crowe from the building trade and,

Barry and Alan:

Cousins who’d done time, for some sort of crime,

But nice lads, they watched each other’s backs.

 

Daunting I thought, those tasks that were ensuing.

I asked Eddy Crowe what his thoughts were:

Frowning and scowling;

“Taking some cuttings, digging deep footings,

I know what I’d rather be doing!”

 

I thought about those nice jobs on the telly;

The chap who made it sound appealing,

Chatting and laughing.

We carted manure, stank like a sewer;

I’d got four kilos down one welly.

 

Then deep double-digging, backbreaking stuff,

Known as ‘bastard-trenching’, yeah, I know!

Grunting and groaning.

My joints ached and creaked, the fresh manure reeked,

And by noon, well I’d just had enough.

 

Time for our butties and nowhere to sit.

Barry used a barrow as a chair;

chomping and smoking.

Alan lost his rag, didn’t have a fag;

He was looking for someone to hit!

 

I began to feel somewhat out of place,

with these seasoned navvies, me so green;

worried and flustered.

A second rate horse, a difficult course;

I thought I’ll never keep up the pace.

 

The gloomy afternoon brought more despair.

Still bastard-trenching but worse, wind and rain;

Cursing and sighing.

I couldn’t get warm, in that cold wet storm;

It felt more than I could ever bear.

 

Seven miles home on my bike, full of wrath;

Merciful that it was all downhill,

thinking and doubting.

From head to each toe, was painfully sore,

As I soaked in my hot Radox bath.

 

Two bloody gruelling weeks of slog:

every bastard task they could conjure;

sweating and swearing.

Laying it on thick, with spade, rake and pick;

For relief, a brief trip to the bog.

 

After we’d finished our training at Haigh,

We joined the newly formed landscape gang;

joking and fooling.

It seemed a good move, things had to improve;

I had a really good feel for this day.

 

There was Keith, John, Harold, Billy and Pat;

Cooler than a cucumber, Billy...

Shrugging and smirking.

John was a bit strange, kept counting his change;

He grunted, crudely gestured then spat.

 

Keith liked his beer but didn’t like Mondays;

All nice chaps, but we loathed Fat Harold,

Shouting and cursing.

Always had his say, went out of his way,

To make life a misery most days.

 

All of us chaps worked incredibly hard,

Apart from Harold who skived and lazy Pat;

Dodging and hiding.

Pat was only fit, for brushing up shit,

and scoffed all that we all would discard.

 

Our new gaffer was an old ex-miner -

Arthur Cooper, who had a bad chest;

Coughing and spluttering.

Despite his bad chest, he had far more zest,

Than all of us, never a whiner.

 

His boss was Joe, ex-Navy and quite odd;

craftsman gardener and a nice chap,

chatting and laughing.

Never a skiver, no - a slave driver!

And did he make us slog? Good God!

 

Surely it would be those TV jobs soon,

but no, nothing like on the telly,

digging and grumbling.

Still double-digging, dirty sweat dripping,

much harder than that last afternoon

 

Bastard-trenching eventually ended,

miserably replaced by digging holes,

puffing and grunting.

Big holes for big trees, their depth to our knees,

the digging was bloody extended.

 

Our next undertaking, turfing at Scholes,

now this was surely a TV job,

chatting and laughing.

We didn’t expect how hard it would get,

It just slightly beat digging big holes.

 

Unloading the turf, a sod of a job;

gave us all a bad back and sore neck,

creaking and groaning.

Apart from all that, was soil to rake flat,

the thought of it made your brain bloody throb.

 

Turfing TV gardens was miles away

from turfing our vast verges and sports fields,

square yards and square yards.

Each man and his plot, had such a damn lot,

tons of soil, yards of turf day after day.

 

We had a reprise from turfing at last,

having turfed all of Scholes and much more.

Hopeful and eager,

we moved to Beech Hill, it dampened the thrill,

when we dug deep drains our keenness died fast

 

Now these weren’t little TV garden drains;

they were five feet deep and a mile long,

spading and shovelling.

There’s nowt like cold mud, for freezing the blood,

I wondered if I had any brains.

 

Weeding was next so Keith went on the beer.

It wasn’t like the TV chap’s weeds,

singing and whistling.

It proved so boring, so soul destroying,

vast weed-infested plots we had to clear.

 

But weeding was second for dreariness

to stonepicking on bloody big fields,

bending and groaning.

Finger tips bleeding, backs bent and creaking,

nowt beat it for boredom and weariness.

 

It was years of tediousness and toil,

but I learned every skill inside out,

practicing and swotting;

perfecting my trade, improving my grade,

I intimately got to know the soil.

 

They were tough times but I found some good mates

and even made friends with Fat Harold,

finally and reluctantly.

He wasn’t so fat but often a prat,

but I took all that life put through the gates.

 

Some crafty gardeners get on TV

but avoid telling it ‘warts and all,’

dodging and swerving.

With gifted gold tongue, they sing a nice song,

only things that they want you to see

 

I’m not the chap who gets in showbiz;

I won’t be like the chap on the telly,

chatting and laughing...

sowing a few seeds, pulling a few weeds...

I’ll always tell it just as it is.