Scary stories from a lovely place
The first poppy in my garden has sprung forth from it’s hairy, green cocoon to reveal the glory of its red, black and yellow face. And it is a glorious sight. The hue is oh so bright. The petals are papery and delicate and the stalk is long and slender.
The appearance of this solitary poppy has made me realise that the whole joyous pastime of gardening is a bit like childbearing. You sow seeds in a spirit of hopefulness and excitement. Baby seedlings emerge, and encased in their embryonic seed leaves they are fresh and young and fragile. You nurture them. You nourish and protect them. Perhaps you even gently stroke them, talk to them, think about them while you try to fall asleep at night.
And then they open, or they form fruit, they set flowers or they burst into beautiful, colourful, fragrant life. And they are born. You have produced them. Without your efforts they wouldn’t otherwise exist, or they would be neglected, sadly misformed. Your stilted but wholehearted efforts have made life.
That’s what I felt when I saw this first poppy in the crisp, morning sunlight, nodding and smiling at me, saying hello with its little eyes.