EDWARD Thomas finds pleasure in the autumnal tasks and smells of gardening, albeit with perhaps an elegiac twinge, in this piece written in 1915 before he was caught up fatally in the First World War.

DIGGING

Today I think

Only with scents, - scents dead leaves yield,

And bracken, and wild carrot's seed,

And the square mustard field;

Odours that rise

Where the spade wounds the roots of tree,

Rose, currant, raspberry, or goutweed,

Rhubarb or celery;

The smoke's smell, too,

Flowing from where a bonfire burns

The dead, the waste, the dangerous,

And all to sweetness turns.

It is enough

To smell, to crumble the dark earth,

While the robin sings over again

Sad songs of Autumn mirth.