Merely to Me

Merely at the end of July and there’s a clear whiff of Autumn moving in; here and thereabouts, in corners of the garden. It’s in the trees. It’s coming. The year as a mix-tape; the seasons on shuffle.
Rain is marching over from the Irish Sea – on a swift day’s outing, coast to coast, sponsored showers.
Our tomato plants are high, taking more canes than a catholic schoolboy. I make a halo of pale shelter for the flimsier blooms; the rescue pots saved from the garden centre’s ‘wasting’. “The worst part of my job,” the lady told me there, whilst marking another scrub of a shrub down to 50p for me. The worst part of my job – and I thought, well, in relative terms, that’s got to make for a pretty good gig.
I’m making space, meanwhile. Not so easy in the tiniest woodshop, but space to be able to wait for this rain. The dying of a past life. And growing into something that finally makes sense to me.

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About Stevie Mitchell

I come from a long line of cartoons and beer. I was once peed on by a tiger. Hoping the resultant super-powers are yet to come, cos if these are they, then, grrrr....
This entry was posted in Creative Writing, Garden and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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