Somebody spent four seasons as the person who knew everybody at the allotments:
which plot was whose, who had died, who had had the twins,
whose shed the mower lived in now.

At the show in September they entered nothing.
Not from shyness. There had been nothing planted.

They had walked between the beds for four years
and been, the entire time, genuinely and completely welcome.

The Book of the Bard — Wall 53:7