Weeding

Twenty minutes of my life spent
taming a wee patch of ground:
pulling up the thugs:
Bishop's Weed with its comfortable
florette, its roots pale as death
running away into undergrowth
snap to protect
its wide-spreading family;

buttercups gripping fast with
long thin fingers, spreading
broad leaves to the sun;
grass, perennial as ruin,
justified, ancient, here
longer than man ... and
orange poppies, prolific, would
take over the garden if
I let them.

Then I hoe, break-up
compacted soil, then put
fresh, black, friable and new
earth down:  tidy and
neat to my eye - but nature
is a messy sprite, spreads
chaos with a grin - and
all the chaos will come
back, be not long in
settling-in.

A five-minute rest, for
easing limbs and
drinking water, then the
next twenty minutes begin.

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