Today, after I took the children to school and did the grocery shopping and hung out the laundry, I got waylaid by the blackberries. It was warmer than I expected, and the garden waste bin is being picked up in the morning. I don’t like to set it out half full. There was a certain type of danger to proceedings. I was wearing my second best pair of tights, And I realised part way through that I had forgotten to put the perishables into the fridge. But the appeal of the sunshine, And the opportunity to claw back a corner of the garden From those spiky arms before the spring growth When they will reach their tendrils out, out, out Overrode the risks. Besides all that there is, for me, something addictive, Something like power and control in wielding my secateurs, Which is hard to come by in the rest of my life. Before I went inside I harvested parsley which my neighbours planted During the first lockdown. Inside I put away the groceries and avoid looking at the newspaper. On whose cover there is a very different type of danger.
For other writing by me about time in my garden check out my essay in For the Love of Trees by Vicky Allan and Anna Deacon.