Forgive me, garden, for I have sinned, It’s been four weeks since I last paid you attention.
You see, dear garden, let me explain, it’s not that I don’t love you or want to spend time with you; it’s not that I’m lazy and not bothered to dig you, it’s simply that life has gotten in the way, and the real world has hindered my ability to tend to your
Fear not, my garden, I have returned. (With help, of course.)
We arrived this morning, myself and my parents, whose help I enlisted to battle your weeds. I’m sorry we stared at you aghast, I’m sorry we laughed at the sorry state you were in, I shall endeavor not to mock you again. Your beauty was hidden behind weeks of weed growth, spurred on by the horrible, wet, summer weather. Your lovely shed door was almost wide open, if not for the kindness of my lovely allotment neighbour, who tied it closed, after what it seems, a huge bunch of weeds had forced it open.
I am full of remorse.
We spent three hours, pulling up weeds, tidying you up, making you look nice again. We pulled up your beautiful borage plants, who were so prolific they were choking everything else, we massacred at least one hundred poppies, we pulled up at least a thousand and one nettles; my arms (my penance) covered in stings.
You began to look lovely again, your sweet peas and cornflowers, glorious in the sunshine.
You, my garden, despite the neglect, have continued to grow and provide me with crops. Your poor potato patch, badly blighted, looked forlorn and beyond redemption. On closer inspection, much to our surprise, hidden below were hundreds of beautiful, baby Maris Pipers, healthy as anything. Only a few were rotten. It’s truly a miracle.
Your raised beds, when freed from the grasp of the weeds, revealed a bumper crop of huge beetroots, some almost as big as my face. Your cabbages, celery, brocolli and lettuces, your peas, your rhubarb, your strawberries and artichokes all huge and healthy, despite the bad summer. Your swiss chard and spinach decided to bolt, but are beautiful bright lights in the centre of the plot. And your onions, oh your onions, they are almost ready, I can almost taste them. I long to dig them up.
May the weather bless you and keep you until next weekend, when I shall return, to reap more of your bounty.
P.S. Many thanks to Janette and John, without whom, you’d still be a mess.