I have difficulty letting go
Reluctantly I annex a runway down the centre of the 9 square metre of garden to plant tomatoes. One Grosse Lisse and two of my favourites, Tommy Toes.
This means pulling up yet more man-sized patches of nettles. The sting is still virulent months after the plant is removed from the soil. (Note to self: If I'm to insist on letting the nettles grow of their own accord I really must plant some dock).
The kale has gone to flower. I'm enjoying the splash of yellow out my backdoor too much to unearth them as yet. The coriander, I bargain, can stay til there are seeds to harvest. The parsley is still edible, though the flavour grows stronger and more bitter by the day.
But really, I just can't let go.
Gardening, even on such a miniscule scale is like having a living Buddhist parable on my doorstep. One moment it looks perfect. Young green leaves to eat in salad, plump grapes on the vine. Weeds banished. The next, the fruit is rotting. The weeds have taken over. The herbs have bolted.
Despite knowing nothing stays the same, that there is no point holding onto the past, I'm not ready to pull out the spent winter plants yet.
Just another week of soaking in their soothing shades of green.
Or until the tomatoes have grown enough.