Promise.
I hold the hose over the broad beans, lettuces, and newly sown seeds and hope that the water is reaching down through the dust. But a scratch with the hoe shows that it remains on the surface like rain on a mackintosh. To make sure that it gets through I count to 40 as I hold the hose above a batch of six plants. It is tedious standing there, but I try to imagine new roots welcoming the water, and the dust turning soft and muddy.
There is a variety of rowan tree which has similar flowers to the more common red berried variety but berries of a cream colour. There is such a tree on the corner of Belgrove. Its flowers are shedding their pollen at the moment. Drifts of it lie on the brick pavement like sawdust.
I hold the hose over the broad beans, lettuces, and newly sown seeds and hope that the water is reaching down through the dust. But a scratch with the hoe shows that it remains on the surface like rain on a mackintosh. To make sure that it gets through I count to 40 as I hold the hose above a batch of six plants. It is tedious standing there, but I try to imagine new roots welcoming the water, and the dust turning soft and muddy.
There is a variety of rowan tree which has similar flowers to the more common red berried variety but berries of a cream colour. There is such a tree on the corner of Belgrove. Its flowers are shedding their pollen at the moment. Drifts of it lie on the brick pavement like sawdust.
2 comments:
Your discovery (that the water isn't penetrating) is exactly the discouraging revelation I always come up against in gardens. The only solution is to take the rose off the watering can or the hose and let the water drop down en masse, so that puddles accumulate. OK so a few leaves and petals get torn off but the task is done. Afterwards, when flowering fails, there'll be some Titchmarchian rationale to excuse this.
I had a hose. It was a question of persistence and patience.
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