My surprise and smile outshone
the eight yet to bud daffs
handed over by a near stranger
who’d taken up a forgotten offer.
She’ll put that soil to good use,
dashing colour onto the mornings
of those passing her pots along
each metal step down to work.
The wild twigs of neglected boxes
border frosted glass, saying lots
of neighbours you wouldn’t get
from a wander inside
though weed free mine might be,
the receipt’s still sat by the fridge;
four quid for a ready grown tray,
a small cost to avoid the stares.