Weeds, weeds, weeds.

Oh, how we gardeners hate them.

But just like snails and other pests

they grow in such abundance,

especially when at last

the sun shines down upon us.

When winter looks like passing on,

when rain and rain and yet more rain

has blessed us;

when I think my fingers might not freeze,

when the joy of spring has come

and I can relish its delights;

I venture out beyond the flowers

just outside my door

to be greeted with a multitude,

an overwhelming mini forest

of clinging, grasping, just won’t bloody budge

display of greenery

that I really do not want.

They’re in the lawn.

What lawn I ask when I see dead roots

and really not much more.

They’re on the bank I planted

with chamomile and clumps of oregano.

Now I have to taste the leaves;

is this thyme or a clever little weed

that looks so very similar?

No smell, that’s strange and no, it didn’t kill me

but after hours of digging and pulling

and quite a lot of swearing

with blunted fingers and muscles sore,

I really don’t know what hurts more,

the sight of these buckets of weeds

that clung to my well composted soil,

or my aged, aching bones.