Gardening with a fork.

i spent the whole damned day in the garden with my fork. i dug, scraped and worked the soil & the grass. you see things up close when you’re doing that; see the beetle run & the worm squirm – the birds watch, their singing a backdrop to the day. leaves are falling everywhere, great piles of them, sodden under the rhododendrons, lovely colours, soaked by yesterday’s rain. i’d like to sleep there with the hedgehogs. my fork scrapes and bares the soil, oh to be soil again, i must will that my ashes are mixed with it so that, at last, i’m back; a comforting thought. i imagine the pain of the earth & the beasts in it as my fork tears the soil open, lays it bare from it’s cover of moss. ripped up, torn apart and why – to tidy, impose my vision on the garden – but the garden doesn’t care and nature, which rules out there, hardly notices my pinprick efforts – soon nature will return the garden to where it was before my puny efforts caused a hiccup in it’s march, back to where it has always been, where it wants to go and will go no matter what we try to do. our attempts to control it are a sugar coated pill to cancer, a sticking plaster to a broken back. we are ineffectual but there is the beauty – in the moment that we make a temporary, tiny difference. call it stasis for a millisecond in time, when we seem to hold up natue’s progress, just for a moment and see our mark there, knowing it won’t last, it cannot and in truth – we don’t want it to.