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.

Paul Stephenson