As part of a long-overdue redesign of our garden, I dug some trenches to drain the lawn, and others to take the footings of dwarf walls. To my surprise, I found some interesting bits of Upper Tunbridge Wells Sand, but I sensed that my garden still didn’t share my enthusiasm (see Gordon’s garden).
I am Gordon’s garden, and although I had my say,
He’s taken not a scrap of notice, gone his own sweet way.
Not satisfied with dumping stuff he’s brought from far away,
He’s recently been eyeing me in quite a different way.
He’d noticed how my lawn becomes so boggy when there’s rain,
And dug a string of trenches filled with gravel so they drain.
(It’s ruined my appearance. Oh, he really is a pain!)
But what he found took me aback – perhaps I’d best explain.
For as he dug, he came across a sandstone block or two.
I saw him get his hand-lens out to get a closer view.
He looked at them . . . he looked at me . . . and all at once I knew
He wouldn’t stop at drainage trenches. Help! What could I do?
And, sure enough, he came with spade and shovel in his hand,
And devastated even more of my once-virgin land.
He claimed it was for footings, that the whole thing was pre-planned.
Pre-planned, my foot. Such wilful desecration should be banned.
He says I’ll look much nicer when he’s dug a little more.
He says his stone is ripple-marked and shows how, long before,
My ancestors had lazed around upon some wave-kissed shore.
Oh no! I bet he’ll dig until he finds a dinosaur . . .
Well, I am Gordon’s garden, and it’s time for me to say
That up with this I will not put. That’s it. No more, okay?
I have a secret weapon: when it’s wet, it’s sticky grey;
But when his drains dry out my soil, it’s hard, rock-solid clay !
