Over the land freckled with snow half-thawed
The speculating rooks at their nests cawed
And saw from elm-tops, delicate as flower of grass,
What we below could not see, Winter pass.
Edward Thomas, 'Thaw'
I couldn't resist these few lines from my favourite poet. I have been out in the garden this week, trying to get to grips with the winter-grown weeds before everything grows frantically and gets away from me. I have been grubbing amongst the herbs in the herb garden, and enjoying the scent of Sage, and Mint, and Lemon Balm and Rosemary as I brushed against them. The Elecampane is still keeping a low profile, the Bronze Fennel nowhere to be seen yet, and the Thyme is looking rather sorry for itself (so is the one-leafed! Sage, come to that). The Sage looked even more battered after Gypsy had mistake it for Cat-Nip and rolled all over it!
Today I have been clearing the greenhouse pathway of weeds, and ripping back the grass which has draped itself over the edging stones. It is so satisfying to put things to rights, though I have a long way to go before even this little patch in the paddock is sorted out. After the stretching and kneeling and to give my back a rest, I have been standing and fielding slices of long-dead ash tree as my husband removes them with the chainsaw from the big double-trunked tree which fell about 5 years ago and now makes excellent burning.
For relaxation - reading Mathew Hollis' biography of Edward Thomas ("Now All Roads Lead to France") and I have just blown the dust off "The Muse Colony" (Dymock 1914). An Edward Thomas season then.
