Ah Weeds…

‘That one’ she says jokingly to visitors, as I am kneeling in a rose bed plucking bittercress,

‘sure, she wouldn’t know a weed from a flower’

I am in a tiny war. It’s very quiet and involves no fossil fuels.

Seditious even.

Gardening in league with the wild things.

A flowering thistle. Royal purple, holy gift.

Ripe to cast its seed out into the world.

I carry the unfurling mass to a nearby place to fly.

I pluck out the Herb Robert and gift it to the hedgerows, seed intact.

The brambles sprout and leap through the shrubberies and I cut them back and whisper another route for them to grow.

Their autonomy, my tacit support.

How could I choose? The only transaction here is action.

How could I truly know? These vast networks of glorious beings partaking in gorgeous exchanges.

I shall keep skipping about, letting seeds fly for seasonal joy and successional comfort.