I am planted on the thick sleeper-edge, arms outstretched. My fingers gather slender stems, digging down to pull-up by the roots. I am clearing space around pea stems as they reach to grasp on and stretch up. My flowered gloves are on the garage shelf, rather than my hands. Nails and fingertip whorls embedded with dirt, again.
Behind me there are slender celery stalks, standing at attention. Leggy, waving rocket flower-laden and infant silverbeet. Red veined beetroot leaves lend colour as I look across towards the paling fence. The fence just up last year, not yet silvered by the sun.
Thursday afternoon, I am here. Early week responsibilities over, and I slow down. I pull up weeds, feed young plants, sit, watch. Slightly grey today, but sheets spin on the line, behind the gate.
The chookhouse runs along the garden edge, and it's occupied by spiders. The hens have traded up into a movable pen. I suspect it just spreads the destruction of their scratching further.
My scratching and garden-scrabbling has become a weekly comfort. My mind wanders, in the way of a pleasant sunlit stroll, and I draw breath as the sun pours last minute brightness along receptive clouds. To find my solace here is unexpected.
I have linked to L.L. Barkat's In, On and Around Mondays (Thursday is in the same week as Monday), and to the photo prompt 'Solace" at 3 from here and there.