Heartened by signs of spring we had begun to hunt for summer. It had hid so well, under days that stretched out light but not warmth, we began to worry. When it pounced it was glorious and shocking: still in our cold weather clothes suddenly the alchemy of heat swept through everything. Butter was a liquid, our icy, cavelike bathroom was a blessing, the roads were lava. Grass grew taller than fences. Strawberries got fat. On my commute, cars became carapaces catching sun, shining scales on a snaking neck. Road kill was crow jerky in roadside dust. Ox eyed daisies lifted up, radiating cool petals, signalling hope. Signalling remember: signalling balance. Death feeds the carrion birds, and the earth; it becomes the soil to nurture roots. The sun can both love and blister you. And then, as the calendar turned to the first month of summer, rain came; it was dumped by the bucket, it washed away the heat, made mud from dust. It suckled the flowers into bloo...
I am watching hazel leaves shimmy in a breeze, they are keeping time with the buzz of nettle stings that run from my fingertips to my elbows. It feels like I'm wearing gloves made of needles; why didn't I just wear gloves to clear the nettles from the raspberry hedge? But I like to know the plants, how they grow, how they smell, how they stain and sting, what bugs shelter in their leaves, what grubs and gastropods nestle at the roots. How the roots sneak under weedblocks, moon-pale, and over open ground where they are purplish, bullish. I like the work to affect, I like interactive life. It has a little pain and a lot of interest. Not all the nettles are gone, of course, some must be left to house caterpillars, and they are a healthy vegetable for people too. Today’s crop is for compost though, to feed the soil, the miracle stuff from which this abundance grows. How could I not wish to be close to that? At home I have a shower, scrub my sore hands- and still I sm...