Monday Evening:
Bundled solar lights in the polytunnel give tropical leaves an artic-blue
slant. Ten slugs are plucked from the soil: moist bits of muscle that contract
on touch. They have no concept of ownership, nor of work: their lives seem
harmlessly simple, apart from this misunderstanding between us. They eat our
work before it fruits: their boneless bodies are fed to nesting birds.
Wood smoke moves through the house, startled up by the wine blips. After a good
day's work, feet rest up and the gardening books are open.
Tuesday Morning:
Everything green gets
bigger and bigger. Lawnmowers are pushed to keep the grass from swallowing all
of civilisation. The butternut squash might form its own government. We edge
the vast leaves, placatory.
'The feed is working,' we agree.
Underneath, the spinach is finding a way, the sweet peppers seem content.
Over at the shed the roof seems watertight.
'Exciting times,' we agree.
There is still a problem with cats.
Tuesday Afternoon:
Garden plans are forwarded
with digging. Slugs and odd bugs are chucked mid-lawn. Dog eats a dandelion
root. Turned earth is covered, put under wraps. It is hot and heavenly to think
of coming back to this plot and knowing all the preparation is done.
To watch the flowers open and know: we did this.
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