FINDING THE SHAPE OF THE GARDEN
This morning the air is warm. It carries a hay-like scent and is tinged with floral notes.
Alt text says this week’s photo is a close up of flowers. It is indeed and it is a photo taken this very morning as the rose blooms begin to open for the day.
The Bank Holiday Weekend at the end of May always signals garden time to me. Peering out tentatively during the cold, grey days leading up to the weekend I saw a garden with the features of Sleeping Beauty’s castle – long grass in the borders, brambles weaving their way along the back path, and dandelions making themselves right at home pretty much everywhere. I was eager for sunny days to spur me on. I also realised I hadn’t been spending much time at all out there apart from my visits to the compost bin and to put out the washing every now and again. I appreciate both these things, but they don’t make my heart sing as much as cultivating a good garden space or indeed of sitting outside enjoying the feel of the sunshine. Mind you, I am very proud of my compost making abilities. I think my sense of smell helps here as I can tell when it is in need of an extra helping of cardboard, and when it is in a state of perfect balance. There was a time recently when the worms themselves were celebrating their home by rising up into the lid to greet me when I took down the latest set of peelings. A whole writhing lid full that when I was little would have given me the creeps but now brings a sense of pride and wonder. I thanked them for their good service and took pleasure in the fact that there is a whole ecosystem at work right there based on kitchen waste products making a perfect soil enricher for the future.
My heart jumped for joy on Friday when the sun came out and stayed out and I felt invigorated to make a head start on finding the garden’s shape again. Time spent outside in my own patch has been restorative in many ways... the satisfaction of seeing how our favourite plants have grown, making room for them to flourish without being overshadowed by grasses and the more invasive plants, that sometimes when digging and pulling weeds that’s the only focus for my brain, sitting out in the sunshine with a cup of tea to take in the view.
When I flopped in a chair after my gardening extravaganza I noted that I smelt of rosemary from having been right in underneath a newly flourishing bush to free it from the tangle of grass and some kind of rampant oniony plant. When the oniony plant first appeared in the garden I thought it was lily of the valley. I soon discovered that the two scents couldn’t be further along the spectrum from each other, but it was very pretty so I let it gap fill little knowing that it was planning to take over! It fascinates me to see what likes to creep into all the spaces. Two years ago I planned to tame the ground elder with mint and now have minty roots making their own extensive underground map so that is sort of working out and I do love the smell of it when I excavate the bits that have gone too rogue.
Here's to sunshine gladdening hearts, and to spaces that bring pleasure.
Here’s A Garden Pond from Welcome to the Museum of a Life. This poem was recently commented positively on when my wife shared it on her ‘Threads’ page. It captures a moment in time when I was little and wandering through someone’s garden only to be fascinated by a pond...
A Garden Pond
I had never seen so many shades of darkness.
Difficult to distinguish
dark, dark brown from burnished black.
I was happy there
staring.
My reflection stared back
rippled.
I wanted to kiss it.
I already knew there were countless shades of green –
pure lime green,
dark army green,
fairy tale frog green
the endless mixing in of yellow.
A snail with an algaed shell
moved as if in outer space.
I was close to gripping it.
Then I was right in there
amongst bouncy pond weed,
straggly ribbons of leaves
and those shades of brown and black in close-up.
Oh, the depths of it.
I was so cold amongst the stale green smell
but happy.
They shouldn’t have ripped me from it
just to wrap me in a stranger’s dog blanket.
Rough wool held me silent
all the way home.
The air had chilled me to the bone
grey dog hairs stuck to my lips.
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