It's Still Life

In Search of Wild Garlic

Spring ends on Thursday.
Or it might be Friday.

That’s what the weatherman says.

Wintery showers.
Maybe snow.
Nonsense.
It’s 19º and sunny today.

I’m foraging
for wild garlic
on the creek embankment.

Maybe it’s too early, although
magazines are full
of wild garlic.

Soup. Pasta. Pesto.

Avoiding stuff by the footpath,
or the road. The county sprays
weird-smelling stuff all along it.

Grandpa used to pee on their rhubarb –

he couldn’t make it
to the outside loo,
but he could make it to the rhubarb.

It didn’t suffer from it,
leaves were big as elephant ears.

He’d tie the plant upright to
the fence with rope.

The goat was tied there also,
so I suppose the goat
peed on it, too.

Two old goats peeing on it.

Nan fermented the leaves in rainwater –
as insecticide.
Quite deadly.

Nah, no wild garlic around yet.
It’s too early.

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Written for Stream of Consciousness Saturday “Rope”. Photo by Martin Péchy on Unsplash ©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting #apoemaday on Twitter