He has worked in gardens most of his days honing

A physique capable of digging, planting, weeding, sowing

And lifting. hours at a time, with civilised breaks for food

And conversation, the latter deciding whether he would

Classify you as friend or merely customer. His talk revealed

That he was an educated man who had studied his field

In books, at courses, online media, and with fellow workers

Relishing facts and theories that were his ecological scriptures

Sacred but correctable that helped him comprehend

the landscapes on which he lived and worked. He knew I’d

been at university and therefore with learned terms he tried

me out, often proving the vagueness of my knowledge. Biome

I could manage but ecotone, no way. “Ah,” he says, spying

A chance to shine, “It’s the transition zone between different

Ecosystems. Like the tree line on mountains, with small bent

Trees and big shrubs, taking life from above and below. Or like

The lush vegetation by a watercourse” “Riparian” I reply,

Proud to remember the word. I had it easy, middle class

Posh school, Uni, and into a job I loved; he, stats

Call unusual, made his way from a housing scheme

Into skilled work which became a vocation. Even

Now he worries about funding his retirement. I’ve grown

To enjoy his visits here. For him and me, an ecotone.