« Spring Pea »

That was some winter tutt the walking wounded. Frost seared the ivy stares forlornly at fallen comrades, casualties of an impossible cold. Bitten hard a pretty holly stone dead in his pot. The lemon pine gave up the ghost by christmas. Some staggered as far as March too, but a bitter death rattle proved the final insult and saw them off. Short of space I decide the sweet pea can jostle with the late daffs, tickle his ankles when he's up. Last years sunflower trunks jammed in deep provide a handy climbing frame. And a good tank-trap for the cat from down the street who is wont to visit and dig.