Letters to garden makers

Dear reader, You may have given up on reading this blog - I have felt like I may be speaking to the ether again but nevertheless I continue to write, perhaps because it helps me to understand who I am. I used to panic about losing plants - but this drought has helped me see that nature edits. I may not agree with the editing but there is precious little I can do about it. The drying has killed off the weaker and diseased shrubs, and opened up spaces that I had forgotten about. The lower end of the garden can now be restructured in the autumn which was needed anyway - it just makes my task of clearing easier. I also need to rethink succession in the main block of planting in the middle of the garden - I was late in planting some of the annuals - which have yet to really flower among the perennials. I have been waiting for the rudbeckia to flower with their cheery yellow- and at last they are beginning to open. I have one tiger lily burning brightly - the othe...

Dear reader, In bright Albion the flowers of a dead man fade A bright brimstone fly brings a butter yellow dance to its air No fire or fury The blackest of blackbirds sneak in the shadows piping the tune of stolen raspberries This is the life of this soul This gardener This colourless plot This 'working class' poet and artist I shrink from authority and superior wisdom The devil is in detail and bluster and over-confidence I shrink back This dry Albion The land desiccates Trees drop leaves and turn autumnal The river is a stream Patches of shade remain green while the exposed grasses have faded to straw This land which is usually drenched Sodden Soft Has become iron This is a metaphor for me and my drying soul Faith's faltering on the cusp There should be a thirst which I am not feeling There is a lack of water in the well The glory though is in the shade where the blackbirds are Shade retains moisture And deep roots tap ...