20 JANUARY 1996, Page 32

My Mother's Gardener

For some weeks absent, he tinkered at the lock Sprang open the rickety lichened gate And shuffled boggle-eyed as if in shock Across the unkempt lawn he used to cut.

His blacksmith's frame fell forward in a stoop, A heavy coat drew down his wasted muscles, His thickset face had been reduced like soap, His skin was barely lit by red corpuscles.

He told us all about his blood transfusion, Explained he could not garden any longer. As he left, the bolted grass he stepped on Rose quietly in the wake of his departure.

J. Harpur