Found, flaccid,
amongst my greens,
I scooped you on the shovel’s tip
and lobbed you over the wall.
Repulsive as a toddler with a snotty nose
I was relieved to be rid.
Next day, tiny teeth had left their
mark on every shoot. Declaring war
I crushed egg shells and scattered them like a fortress -
imagined moist flesh tearing.
Yet still you came, and now at dusk
I bury a crock in the soil and fill it with beer.
‘Foolproof’ my neighbour said,
promising death in its sweetness.
Later, cocooned in sleep
a baby’s foot withers
and I awake, gulping.
Your crystal trail glistens
with a duper’s delight -
mocking my attempts at victory.
A single cabbage survives the skirmishes.
Nurtured to maturity;
picked with pride.
And when at last
I slice my prize
you are there
nestled
deep
inside.
Annie Cowell grew up in Marske-by-sea a fishing village steeped in history and folk tales. Twenty years ago, she swapped a London career for teaching amidst the olive groves of Cyprus. Her agented debut novel, “The Moon Catcher” is on submission and she now writes full - time.