“Don’t be ashamed to weep; ’tis right to grieve. Tears are only water, and flowers, trees, and fruit cannot grow without water. But there must be sunlight also. A wounded heart will heal in time, and when it does, the memory and love of our lost ones is sealed inside to comfort us.”
― Brian Jacques
It’s been a tough couple of weeks. There have been tears before bedtime and laughs have been in short supply. But it has rained, and that has cheered the garden up enormously. A couple of weeks ago I spent hours watering our London garden only to stick a trowel in the earth and find that the water had penetrated no more than the top centimetre. Further watering ensued. In Broadstairs, conscious a proper soaking was in order, I left the hose on all day and still there was only a spade’s depth of moist soil.
When preparing a planting hole the earth was swallowing up four gallons and still gasping for more. It will take a lot of persistent rain to get ground conditions back to normal for the time of year. Gardeners in a similar position should beware the drying effects of the wind and drench any trees, shrubs and perennials that have been planted recently. My pots are bone dry, and that’s not good for prolonging the display of flowers or encouraging lush new growth.
The water droplets on my hostas are not tears, though they look a little bit like them. They belong to heaven and earth, temporarily diverted on their journey between sky and soil. They will wash away dust, pollution and pollen before quenching thirsty roots. I love to see them, touch them, nudge them like little balls of mercury, before they roll away or join to form larger pebble shapes. On the maidenhair fern (Adiantum venustum) raindrops tremble, clinging on to the flimsy foliage before they are shaken to the ground by the wind.
As I finish writing this post I look out across the rooftops of Broadstairs and see there is sunlight, and the prospect of happier times ahead. TFG.