POEMS AND KNEES AND THINGS

First the big news - I have come third in the Gardeners' World Magazine Poetry Competition - and won £50 of gardening vouchers. Perhaps there is a little self wish fulfilment in the poem - what a way to go. (Not so nice for those who find me though.)

So what do I spend it on? It will not be on my knees even if I am. One replacement down, the other can wait (and wait).

It will not really go a long way. Get someone in for half a day to strim? Buy a few plants - no that has been vetoed for now by R who says we have enough in the garden and I can divide and do cuttings etc. A new trowel - do not need it - a pot with a lid to hide in the garden and put my whisky in for tots on cold days - am joking - on the other hand . . .

It is now time for tidying and clearing and weeding and getting the beds ready for the winter.
Autumn colours are all but over and it was misty and very still this morning, not a breath of wind.

The whole garden is going to sleep - well, not quite true - birds, rabbits and some plants are very awake. The sarcococcus is in bud as is the winter-flowering honeysuckle. Plants like roses struggle on and the marigolds offer blazes of yellow here and there.

The pots filled with tulips have been topped with bright yellow winter pansies and, after nipping out the flowers when planted, they are now blooming and lighting up the area around the house.
Hopefully they will do so all winter.

The last autumn leaves are still on the Great White Cherry and the Liquidambar.

From my desk I can, once more, 

see through the wood to the top where the ash trunks are grey in the mist.

So, it is start at one end time, work through the garden and, Oh yes, I have not made the new tops for the cold frames - urgent! I have not drained the cassis from the jars and rebottled it. I have not, I have not . . . etc.

And the poem -

SHEDDING TIME

April crosses the lawn,

swings shadows over the grass.

In a potting shed,

rotting at the back planks,

a kettle boils

on a gas ring.

He hefts a tea-bag

into a mug,

dribbles milk and stirs

till bricklayer brown.

Deck-chair stripes swing,

sink, settle.

He watches a spider

crouching behind the dibber

watching him, waiting.

He turns on the Test,

listens to tales of cake

and occasional cricket

and drowses,

lulled by the drone of the commentator,

warm sun through the webbed window

and the roar of the bees

on the rosemary by the door.

England collapse.

The tea goes cold

and skins.

Shadows creep over him.

The rise of his waistcoat

falls and stills.

Woodlice scurry,

disturb dust.