I’ve had the urge, see. A real throbbing need, an itch to scratch.
It’s the garden and since the weather has been warm and, thank heavens, wet today I’ve done a lot, even extending a gravel path and a bark path through the beds. My tonnes of homemade compost is being spread around and soon the cosmos and sunflowers will go in, with tomatoes and chard to fill spaces and bellies. Even the newts and tadpoles are thriving. Here are a few images, interlaced with one of dad’s poems. Enjoy!!
To Barbara – 21 October 1993
My wife has a passion for gardening
It’s a fever that’s near apolstolic,
When the mood is upon her she’s an absolute goner,
In a word, she’s a garden-oholic!!
But I don’t want to give the impression
That she puts off her housewifely chores!
I’m just pointing out, without any doubt
For her real life is outdoors.
During long, lazy days of summer
When idlers like me take our ease,
She busies for hours ‘mid her plants and her flowers
At one with the birds and the bees.
Winter for her holds no terrors
Though the frost freezes fingers and toes,
And it’s sleeting and snowing and blasting and blowing
There’s a job to be done – out she goes!!
Her only concession to weather
Is to wear either gumboots or clogs,
And she’s first to confess that she couldn’t care less
If it really did rain cats and dogs.
She does pruning and weeding, dead heading and seeding ,
And bashes ahead without pause,
And if I suggest that perhaps she should rest
That’s an idea she quietly ignores.
So I, who am clumsy, just marvel
And delight in the things she has done,
And watch, as she lingers, her gentle green fingers
Bring beauty where once there was none.