He wished for peace
away from his wife’s soap operas,
the neighbourhood gossip,
the constant babysitting for children
who just wanted peace themselves.
He had his greenhouse
and his potting shed
full of cans of kerosene
and petrol for the mower he’d had forty years
and the tools he rubbed with an oily rag
on Sunday afternoons
as he listened to the radio four play.
They found him at six
when he didn’t come in
for his ham sandwich and jam tart.
He was sitting on his compost heap.
Alone with yesterday’s grass clippings
and the warm embrace of nettles.