This garden isn't a showpiece. And I am only the tenant.
I was going to write about The Art of Gardening, using my formerly lumpen, now shapely compost heap of an illustration of how anything rudimentary can be made beautiful.
But it's too hard to think about. It's easier for me to show you these Eucalypts rising out from beside the shapely, formerly lumpen compost heap.
This is why I garden, and why for me it's an art. I like to continue the continuity of life, or to be part of that continuation.
It's nearly spring here. The birds and the buds are leaping. These Freesias came from my grandmother's garden in Adelaide. They smell like a heavenly fruit salad.
I am weak, often, in spring: weak with the labor. I don't mind going slower, finding myself more diligent. Besides, I too, what with my feelings of liberty, feel spring's vigour.
I make gardens to make a space wherein apparent timelessness is allowed. Work, yes, but it's honourable and simple.
