Posted by Peter on May 23, 2008, 2:03 am
86.167.248.90
In the light of the early morning or late evening the flowers are, if anything, more beautiful. No stark dazzle in the midst of the day, no hunt for the suffocated shadow among the afternoon heat....
I can't see it there, what I'm looking for. But in between the flower beds, at the show, walks the dealer who feels wronged. And in between the flowers he has his photo in a frame in my greenhouse. He doesn't upset the plants hiding in their cloches from other pests.
So, pottering here and there at the show, getting pics of the new arrivals after the turf's stripped back and earth dug, I've my thoughts on how it got to here. What it was that drove our kingdom -- our animal kingdom as much as our own dis-United Kingdom -- down this path toward the compost heap. Where we accept the labour of others in far-off lands, giving them a pittance, and, meanwhile, squabble amongst ourselves as to where the cannabis plants are growing: which bed we sniff for our delirium. It won't do. Weaverham's blooming not swooning, in case you hadn't noticed.
So I'll get back to my plants, tending the delicate blooms, the orchids you can't put out there because they'd be snapped up for someone's buttonhole -- or a bunch at a bedside. If they weren't such bad luck. But then we've a fascination for sickly beauty nowadays. Perfume in full-page spreads on the ultra-thin.
In the evening, when the light fades, the true scents come into their own. The heat of the day has gone and the foxes play in the distance. The world's still united under it all.
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