The Village Show
My father was good at auctioning off marrows,
handsome shallots and prize-winning carrots.
He’d a knack for standing on a chair in the Hall
packed with toddlers and pensioners with sticks
who, at half past four, crossed the green for tea
and a slice of sponge to see about the judging.
He sold cars for a living but could also shift potatoes,
mixed bunches of summer flowers, fragrant roses.
From behind his beard he could bellow the bid
for a posey of sweet peas clasped in silver foil.