The Veggie Patch

The soil in the veggie patch lies cold and fallow,
as the steely winter’s sun, slants through the leafless boughs of the plum tree.
The air is icy and still ... the silence broken,
only by the ‘coo’ of a pigeon, perched within its naked branches.


Many growing seasons have gone before,
some producing an abundance of harvest.
But, the last veggie crop had become sickly and diseased.
The tomato vine, spindly ...
a creeper, having woven its way through;
tightly wrapped tendrils, disfiguring the slender shoots.

The red fruit, few and hard to find, among the twisted chaos of creeper and vine-
had yellowed; shriveled dry, dropping seed into the sunless soil below.

Creeper and tomato, so thickly bound, differentiation became impossible ...
the tomato plant, unrecognisable in the tangled, knotted, organic mess.
The flow of life, slowly sapped, in the tight confines of squeezing power.

The secateur blades cut deep,
tearing the now lifeless plant,
from the menacingly tight grip of creeper.
The agonising work of separating limb from limb ...
somehow, excruciatingly relieving.
Browned canes crack and are tossed on the rotting heap of compost.
Until, finally there is no sign of vine or creeper;
of the tortuous, intertwined life that had been.
Only sickly soil, hiding the bitter and unspoken.


The fork pierces through unyielding clay -
suddenly overturned in a flurry of confusion.
Exposed and raw,
roots are heaved out of the ground,
dirt flying, a gaping hole left in its wake.

A spade of grace, lifts and fills the empty, exposed spaces.
The solid clods are broken and gently turned,
air is breathed within the now surrendered and crumbling earth.
Sour soil, is mixed with the sustaining food of compost and manure,
giving off the fresh, wholesome aroma of active and organic ... life.

Finally, brown fallow earth lies ... alive and still.
Peaceful, waiting, hoping, trusting.
Vulnerable beauty - barren and bare.

As the cool of winter days pass, with the billowing of grey clouds,
the seeds lie hidden, dormant, seemingly dead ...
until the joyful pink of blossom in the plum tree appear.

The warmth of sun and refreshing cool of rain,
soaks deeply,
penetrating through hard shells ...
awakening shoots of new life,



- the hope of a fresh harvest.

“My life is like a faded leaf,

My harvest dwindled to a husk;

Truly my life is void and brief

And tedious in the barren dust;

My life is like a frozen thing,

No bud nor greenness can I see:

Yet rise it shall — the sap of Spring;

O Jesus rise in me."

'Gracious Father, fill the garden of my soul with the wind of love,

that the scents of the Christian life may be wafted to others;

then come and gather fruits to your glory.

So shall I fulfill the great end of my being -

to glorify you and be a blessing to others. Amen'