Amidst the freezing gales of this strange summer, Geoff Ellis has time to reflect on those who came before. Photo: Catherine Watson
By Geoff Ellis
DAYLIGHT saving is wasted here. We’re burning wood till midnight to keep warm through nights of slashing rain. The days are punctuated by freezing gales. This season has gone bung.
Grass thrives and silent mowers rust. Pity the poor gardeners, watching from windows, waiting for a break as drains become moats. We need to weed and plant and mow. Now! And mow once more before Santa crash-lands in a nearby paddock.
Yuletide is turning into a tsunami so the one sunny day this week couldn’t be wasted, despite that wind and despite the softness underfoot.
DAYLIGHT saving is wasted here. We’re burning wood till midnight to keep warm through nights of slashing rain. The days are punctuated by freezing gales. This season has gone bung.
Grass thrives and silent mowers rust. Pity the poor gardeners, watching from windows, waiting for a break as drains become moats. We need to weed and plant and mow. Now! And mow once more before Santa crash-lands in a nearby paddock.
Yuletide is turning into a tsunami so the one sunny day this week couldn’t be wasted, despite that wind and despite the softness underfoot.
Our yard’s big and empty. Legions of rabbits devoured most of the hundreds of seedlings we planted at the dawn of COVID19. Three wet winters have drowned many of the surviving plants.
Once the Victa’s thumping it’s a simple matter of pushing it up and down, up and down in parallel lines for several hours. Damp tyre marks trail behind me and beside me as I push through from one fence to another. One day the land will dry out and the ride-on won’t get bogged, again. And the cutting belt won’t burn out, again.
It’s too cold to sweat but at the end of the slog it’s easy to lean on the front gate and think about DNA. This used to be a fragment of a 20 acre farm paddock. In the 1940s it was bush and a hundred years before that sealers and First Nations people collided at nearby Coal Point. Before that …
The clock ticks along so I have to keep moving. Off to a paid gig. A cosy suburban block with overlapping layers of trees and shrubs. A quiet sanctuary designed with love and planted carefully, many seasons ago. I often talk with the current custodian about what to prune and what to leave as she thinks beyond her tenure.
It’s mostly light work but the taller trees are intertwined and awkward to cut. The trick is to find where previous gardeners have pruned and cut above or below their marks. Occasionally there’s a hidden thorn or edge that lightly scratches my arm or wrist. After an hour the green bin is full and my job is done.
There’s a cup of tea waiting for me on the bench and just this once I plonk down and savour the shadows that grow across the concrete. I wonder who else left their DNA on these trees and who’ll be next. The leaves are green, the flowers are bright red and the tea is hot and strong.
Once the Victa’s thumping it’s a simple matter of pushing it up and down, up and down in parallel lines for several hours. Damp tyre marks trail behind me and beside me as I push through from one fence to another. One day the land will dry out and the ride-on won’t get bogged, again. And the cutting belt won’t burn out, again.
It’s too cold to sweat but at the end of the slog it’s easy to lean on the front gate and think about DNA. This used to be a fragment of a 20 acre farm paddock. In the 1940s it was bush and a hundred years before that sealers and First Nations people collided at nearby Coal Point. Before that …
The clock ticks along so I have to keep moving. Off to a paid gig. A cosy suburban block with overlapping layers of trees and shrubs. A quiet sanctuary designed with love and planted carefully, many seasons ago. I often talk with the current custodian about what to prune and what to leave as she thinks beyond her tenure.
It’s mostly light work but the taller trees are intertwined and awkward to cut. The trick is to find where previous gardeners have pruned and cut above or below their marks. Occasionally there’s a hidden thorn or edge that lightly scratches my arm or wrist. After an hour the green bin is full and my job is done.
There’s a cup of tea waiting for me on the bench and just this once I plonk down and savour the shadows that grow across the concrete. I wonder who else left their DNA on these trees and who’ll be next. The leaves are green, the flowers are bright red and the tea is hot and strong.