Wild Gardening

At the start of this year I decided that we would honour what was naturally happening in the large garden here at The Potters House Penketh...let's call it "Wild Gardening".

We call the back garden the  field as it's almost an acre of land.

Wildness around the apple orchard.

It was part of the Penketh Heath..and the road we live on was once the pathway through the heath on the east.

Then as we all know...coronavirus struck ...and affected us here in Penketh on the edge of the Mersey like everyone else around the world..

So locked in behind the iron gates of the field...there is little to do but garden!

Gone is the thought of a wild garden

Instead the grass has been cut,,,

 the labyrinth trimmed..

.and the vegetable patches have never been so prepared as this year.

a spot for peas and beans...

..I even had time to string up these cd's and stop the wood pigeons chomping on the domestic cherry tree this year...last year we got nothing!

The apple trees have been trimmed...and the blossom is already budding.

In the untimely heat of this April lockin..the garden is glorious.

Time to wander on the paths...the potter says seven circuits might make a mile

...so far I've done three each day!

A Poem for Thursday...."The Aunt"

AUNT HELEN
I once heard them call her the weak one,
The youngest, the runt of the pack.
Without grace they said, weak-boned
Hen-chested,  round backed.
Taken away from her mother perhaps
Taken away too soon?
Taken away from family
And the comforts of her home.
I loved her, I love her still,
It was never a slight for me
To get the sharpness of her tongue
Or the sting of her repartee.
Dympsy pink, eau de nil!
Mauve and duck egg blue.
Cherry trees in the late spring
From the veranda viewed.
Garlic flowers in the woods behind
And the heady perfume of bells.
I gathered up armfuls in April days
Of the blueing crooks in the dell.
Now all I have is the ground I stand on,
That and nothing more.
And fast fading memories of our walks
On the  lough's grey stoney shore.
And the smell of tweed skirt from Donegal,
 Damp in the moist-laden air.
With a whiff of the essence of violets
That told you the aunt had been there.