The backyard is a miniature woodland of holly trees and native shrubs, each of them trimmed as if they were green flames. To move about them is a sort of music, a poetry that cannot be spoken in words, yet is heard and calms everything that I am. Derelict garden, broken bird bath, planks fallen out of rotting cedar wood fence, fence thickly overgrown with ivy, weeds, knee high grass, broken plant pots, a rusty bicycle wheel, crumbling statue, a once cared for herb garden now overgrown, thistles, brambles. Some one had been seriously neglecting this whole place and the house was so well-looked after but the garden looked as if it was the prelude to a witch’s cottage.
“I am to "gardening" what my twin nephews are to "bedroom tidying." I see what's there but I don't have the slightest idea w
