The old woman picked "Pomegrenades"
carefully holding the handle, securing the pin,
she placed them in her basket.
Gingerly avoiding the land mines,
she moved down to the salad garden. The rocket
launchers were growing tall: higher than last year's bazookas.
She heard a blackbird sing from somewhere within
the camouflage netting cast over the fruit cage.
The vine was heavy with bullets: ("Grapes Of Rage");
she must return with her trug and a magazine.
The nail bombs looked like artichokes -"Jerusalem"
it said on the tag: she placed one into a bag.
Looking at the sky she felt the dusk
cosseting in. She should pop to the shop
before it got dark. Light the fire, think about tea.
Leave the garden locked up securely.
c. Marc Woodward
Editors Pick at 'Poetrycircle.com' 12/2009
Published in 'Making Contact' poetry anthology, Ravenshead Press, 12/2012