I am not a gardener. I shall never be one. If I was one, I would stop. If I bought a house with a garden, I would introduce weeds and goats to it. I love dandelions. I love daisies. Gorse is not pretty, but its tenacity is to be admired, and perhaps adopted. I despise onion flowers, but I love potato vine. Scottish thistles have their place, and it should be set for them on a clean tablecloth with pewter utensils. Roses look best with a backdrop of kikuyu; it creates juxtaposition, which is the purpose of my life.The more plants the merrier; how dare I tell the ecosystem what to do, like it is too young to decide for itself? Do I know better than wind, pollen, and microevolution? Shall I remove potential from my garden? Do I expect it to receive it's orders politely? Shall I recoil at it's refusal to cooperate, it's continual attempts to usurp me, to invade my garage, and crawl into the cracks of my windowsills? Plants are not a subdued race, but are often the victim of racism, their freedom fighters slashed and poisoned.
As for me, I shall lie amidst my gangly green overgrowth and write with a biro in a spiral bound notebook and no-one shall steal my joy.
I think gorse is one of the most pretty and intriguing plants. Those bright yellow flowers that encase hillsides in golden glory. Then in late summer when it's so hot the tar on the roads glistens and the world is still with a million cicadas orchestrating the soundtrack. This is when the random popping occurs as the seed pods burst, dispersing the next generation. Fascinating.
ReplyDeleteBut as a farmers daughter I must take the position of: "Get out the Roundup Ethel and KILL IT ALL!"