On a visit back to his old cottage, the speaker eagerly walks the new tenant around the plot, naming every vegetable and wild plant with pride. The garden is his living memory: onions that came back, peas and lettuce he planted, clover he considered a salad green. That hopeful handover is undercut by the odd detail of a towering rhubarb by the wall, almost menacing enough to keep children away. Later he learns the tenant had no interest. He ate no onions, let the berries go, and eventually the whole place was covered with gravel for parking. The poem is a quiet lament for something cared for and then erased. The speaker feels disappointment and loss, but expresses it dryly rather than angrily. The mood is nostalgic and gently bitter—an old attachment meeting modern indifference.
Seeds from My Garden — Summary
Back for a holiday, I visit My home, that old cottage, Conduct the new tenant over the grounds, Say, “Here are the onions, back From last year, I planted these. A little ground fire in spring Will weed through the blackberries, In summer they’ll go to eight feet. The sod here is cleared, for last summer I took shovel, planted peas, lettuce, Carrot, red radish. The sour kind Of clover grows here on the lawn, Boon to salads. Wild flowers, Good for a week in the house.”
(By the wall, a garrulous stalk, Alien seed pods clumped in the sun, Six feet of rhubarb — even the kids Keep away.)
The tenant has gone, they tell me He ate no onions, left The berries for birds; He was the grocer’s kind, no use for gardens. They covered the lot with deep gravel, For cars.