Last night the front garden showed me her penis.

Flopped over the wall like a cartoon nose.

She glistened in the darkness, the colour

of crème caramel, too sensitive to look at.

I turned away and went to bed feeling

my gaze could only ever bring pain.

In the morning I checked under the butterfly bush

but the wall was dry, just crisp packets, snail tracks,

dead leaves. The heat is severe. Earth

shrinks in the pots. I water the plants

but it pours out over the steps and drips

into the cellar. The house is thirsty. Cracks open

up in the pointing like tight little mouths,

the bay windows sag, it's end of terrace.

How was the move? people ask.

I have a semi, I tell them. But I flooded my basement.

I try not to sound ashamed. I hoped

things would settle down when the new

housemate moved in. She brings men home.

They arrive in puffer jackets carrying pizza boxes.

I found half a twelve-inch meat feast in the food waste,

a whole garlic bread, long, pale and soft.

The bin men won't take it. Our leavings

spill out into the garden, the front path

is littered with eggshells.

Who eats this many eggs? I ask her.

I don't know, she says. But now I can hear you coming.

I start a compost heap but nothing rots.

Potato skins stare at me with little eyes.

I try to save the plants in the pots and transfer to the border

two leafless saplings I cannot name.

Hacking at the dry ground I see my mother's face

yellow in the black earth, forehead beading with sweat.

It's not you, I tell her, when she opens her eyes.

I know darling, she says. You ought to prune the buddleia.

When I'm finished my trees stick out of the ground like antennae.

I check them every day for new growth.

At night I can hear the Archers' theme tune

but when I look out of the window everything is still.