Another Reason Why I’m Not On A Garden Trail


Faye sends from Montreal
the Lee Valley gardening
catalogue. I could buy
a downspout aiming joint,
seed spoons, a copper obelisk,
the shoulder bag broadcast spreader,
old fashioned glass cloches,
their bell shapes steaming tongueless
over seedlings, barnyard tea
to revive my compost and
perhaps a Perrot impulse sprinkler.

In the photos the models’ rubber clogs (page 88)
complete with two bag set of volcanic deodoriser —
naturally occurring clinoptilolite (page 98)
have never tramped the earth; their fingernails are not half moons of black
perhaps because they use pruners’ soap page 84 and Burt’s 
Bees handsalve; their T-shirts page 87 have no twin mounds
of dirt; their knees aren’t brown with mud.

If I had one of everything, I could endow 
unslugged flowers with everlasting life; grow vegies
lush and caterpillarless in tilth that’s fine
and friable; yarrow would wilt at the sound 
of my lawn aerator sandals; bulbs would be in
the soil before spring; hanging baskets would blast
colour that never fades and I would sit back 
in my Adirondack chair (plans, page 103)
and watch the shadow move across the sundial
calibrated specially for the southern hemisphere.


Bridget Musters lives in rural Nelson where she writes and breaks her fingernails on ten unruly acres. Her poetry and short stories have appeared in various anthologies in NZ and overseas. She is currently a student on the advanced writing programme at Whitireia and is working on a novel.