My back is calling me to take time, to take care, to take note,
so here it is.
I got armed up after a warrior coffee. with my bag, slung like my school satchel on my back, radio and scythe and secateurs.
Final objective, the Spring
Was waylaid by the garden and it's plea bargainers. Water Water, Weed Weed, Save Save, they shout.
I gave emergency medical care to my blotchy, withering Globe Artichokes. A mixture of text and faith and ignorance.
Then I followed my scythe up the bracken spilt paths to the spring.
I started reaching in, into that meagre pool of water, and dredging out the peaty ooze.
I only came back here for a sieve and my bronze mattock, to clear deeper in.
I have had mint tea
No escape now,
Back up the hill.
I clawed out the sludge. Years of it. Pawed it off the well's bottom.
When it hardens down, I will plant mint nearby. Then I scooped out the remaining water.
As I worked, my head inside the springs cave, wafts of mist came from a clay wall on the right.
The base is scattered with chips of bluestone. Some larger pieces are embedded in the clay. Bluestone has long been regarded as having healing effects.
This is a sacred place.
I left the site like an urchin, my trousers stiff with mud.
Then I heard John Penymynydd chipping away. His stone song.
He is building a waterway for the stream that has got lost in the builders' chaos of next door.
We walked together to his cistern, and to see the stream that should flow further, onto my land.
Later, he came down to my hut with a container of water.
I gave him a cabbage. We are learning simple, peasant ways.
After supper I went to see my spring. How it was recovering. The water is still like milky coffee.
I sieved a few leaves and bits of stem off the surface with my fingers .
Then I followed my pipe down, and siphoned it, until muddy water gushed out.
At least the garden has a supply again.
I must use it sparingly.
And hope for rain.
I will be drinking some interesting cups of tea for a few days.
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