tend rows of cabbages,
carrots, potatoes, onions
in muddy gardens plots
by the railway sidings;

they sit in their front rooms
on cool summer evenings,
watching the television
with cups of sweet tea;

none of them married:
they would joke about this;
they stayed at home,
caring for ailing relations,

cooked and cleaned
the house - so no, no,
no children, and children
leave anyway in the end.

One of them dies.
The walls are stripped,
neat space fumigated
and a young couple move in,

so proud of newness,
needing more bathrooms,
needing loft windows,
painting the garden fence,

filling the garden with
a rabbit hutch, flowers
and a cat tearing up
the wet ground to shit

in holes and pouncing,
frightening the birds,
eating slug pellets
set carefully in rings

around cabbages and
yowling in paroxysm
of drunkenness and vomit;
the old witches are accused.

They go to bed early
and nothing happens,
just a hedgehog rootling
and trains clanking by.