One quarter of the weeds among my chamomile
Weeds, weeds, weeds.
Oh, how we gardeners hate them.
But just like snails and other pests
they grow in such abundance,
especially when at last
the sun shines down upon us.
When winter looks like passing on,
when rain and rain and yet more rain
has blessed us;
when I think my fingers might not freeze,
when the joy of spring has come
and I can relish its delights;
I venture out beyond the flowers
just outside my door
to be greeted with a multitude,
an overwhelming mini forest
of clinging, grasping, just won’t bloody budge
display of greenery
that I really do not want.
They’re in the lawn.
What lawn I ask when I see dead roots
and really not much more.
They’re on the bank I planted
with chamomile and clumps of oregano.
Now I have to taste the leaves;
is this thyme or a clever little weed
that looks so very similar?
No smell, that’s strange and no, it didn’t kill me
but after hours of digging and pulling
and quite a lot of swearing
with blunted fingers and muscles sore,
I really don’t know what hurts more,
the sight of these buckets of weeds
that clung to my well composted soil,
or my aged, aching bones.
The pool and its surrounds did look very inviting, so we ventured in on day two. Freezing. We thawed out in the spa and enjoyed the greenery.
Born at the beginning of the Second World War, I have memories that are unique to an Australian child of that era. Many of us didn’t know our fathers because they went off to England to help the British fend off the Germans, or to places like New Guinea to fight the Japanese. For several years I have been writing my memoir. Not having a father in my life for those first few years meant that when he did come home, I had great difficulty learning to relate to him. In this piece I have tried to portray something of that feeling.
Then in the late afternoon, with the sun accentuating the pale bark, my large gum tree (I didn’t plant it, don’t know the name) stood out like a sentinel, towering over everything.
