Some fell among thorns and the thorns grew up and choked them.
Others fell on rich soil and produced their crop some one hundred told
My little vegetable patch is cloaked with weeds. Where is that potato stem?
But did I not put them in rich soil as seed with labour untold?

Where now my runner beans, potatoes and mint.
Where now the sage and tomatoes.
The truth Is have I not laboured without stint.
Where now those straight little pride filled rows.

But now is this not the distinctive leaf of the potato emerging.
A hardy breed resistant to the brownest of fingers.
So yes we are put in rich soil for our own hopeful growing.
And yes ambition’s weeds choke us but slowly we emerge, a chorus of hesitant singers.

We cannot blame any poor soil.
It is only ourselves that can burst through by our own toil.