Morning fog inches higher,
burns off, the palest sun lighting the day as so few days for weeks. By late
morning the garden is the place to be. The JRT, the new cat and their master
venture out. Yesterday, after eight days staring through flywire, the new cat
makes his first foray outside in two quarter-hour stints.
He susses out every corner,
under the house, escape routes up trees. Go roars up the native hibiscus,
realises he’s gone too high, turns to come down, loses the fight with gravity, free-falls
through four metres of space, crushes a wire plant protector, looks startled,
sits and licks himself, the standard cat defence when embarrassed.
Today, with second-day
confidence, he runs through the garden beds, digs holes and lies in them, cat
behaviour unfamiliar to me. Meanwhile I pull the weeds from every corner and
crevice, every pot and patch of dirt. I harvest the last two spindly capsicums,
pull the last of the carrots, three more skinny leeks, and a dozen golf-ball
sized beetroots.
By day’s end I’ve two-thirds
filled a compost bin, my fingers raw, grained with black, the back garden
re-emerging. The spoiled limes and the dog shit is gone, trellises of withered
bean stalks extracted and rolled, bluestones, bricks and rocks shifted, the
next stage of my backyard adventure exposed.
The garden slopes gently but
the lower path floods after heavy rain. I’ve stared long and hard at it but found
no solution. Late this afternoon as the last of the weeds disappears a way
ahead with the sunken path forms in my mind. I’ll need half a yard of sand,
dirty knees and a sore back. The cat will amuse himself, the JRT will watch
from his bed.
Gardens, like relationships,
need constant tending or they’re apt to get away. Sometimes they need remodelling,
rebuilding. They are always about new beginnings.
Rock on.
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