My Grandad had a dibber
Well worn, smooth and brown.
It fitted to the hand,
Nestled in my palm,
As I probed the ground.
He sent me on before him
Making well spaced holes
In rich and loamy earth,
While he followed slowly after,
Down on bended knees
Planting single seeds.
We would watch for weeks
And care for them with water
And then the bean would come
Growing up the frames,
Made from sticks re-used.
The small red flowers shone,
Pixie caps on twisting vines,
Row on row resplendent
In long hot summer suns.