Allot

Allot

In the quiet council chamber, the mayor’s hand draws a line
on the old map, and with a measured voice, she allots the plot
to a child who will pow whitt‐off his roots in the spring‑time heat.

Each square of earth, a promise, a share of the common pie;
they call it the garden allotment, a green slice of community
where the soil stains the fingers, and the colours of the vegetables
flash like a poet’s palette.

Beyond the garden, in the corridors of the timeout wharf, a teacher
allots the stack of maths books, each cover a weight of future
and the temptation to skip the line. Students hand out their names,
and the ink settles.

Outside, at the next bonfire, a chuckle reverberates: “Drink in
a few sips, not spend a breath the whole week.” A gentle allot—
a clock‑hand moderation of life, the subtle art of engaging,
not consuming, not wasting.

It is there, under the summer blue, that we learn the softest rule:
we all are given— or have to allot— a handful of moments
to plant, to sow, to harvest. And when we do, we meet the ground,
the time, the people, in a balanced answer, a British robin’s song.