The pastel colours are a water colour of summer and light,
Of the perfumed days and the perfumed night.
They work in unison under the rare English sun,
As the bees in the hedge will murmur and hum.
The air carries the pollen from bloom to bloom,
And the compost sits in the shaded gloom.
They created it all. They planted and grew.
They dug out the old and planted the new.

Like a dancer she brings her shoulders down,
Which are dusted with freckles and hazel brown.
She inspects the buds for cuts or tears,
The rose as red as the coat she wears.
She tends, she picks,
She’ll mend she’ll hoe.
And dust the seed, for lark, pigeon or crow.

He’ll relish the earth, still damp in the heat,
It’s dark in his nails and around his feet.
Clinging to his arms and up his spade
As he rams it down in the cooling shade.
He plucks out the palest potatoes with skill and care.
There’s sweat on his back and moss tangled in his hair.

In the early evening they head down the twisting lane,
To be caught in the newly falling rain.
It patters on the dug soil as well as them,
And dances on every wilting leaf and stem.
Green is their colour, green of the land
And green of the grass that stains their working hands.