PLANTING FLOWERPOTS

Right.

So.

The house is hoovered and dusted. There are thirty-one mugs on the kitchen table. (For twenty prisoners, ten guards and a driver.) Didcott is nine months old (for the moment) and sitting on my knee.

I can hardly bear it - within a couple of hours, he will be gone.

Strangely, over the last few weeks, I have grown to love him.

His disposition is grim.

He is determined;

solid;

mostly silent;

- and always 'there'.

If I go to the shed, Didcott is 'there' - watching.

When the phone rings, Didcott is 'there' - listening.

When it is time for him to go to school, Didcott is 'there' - with reasons why he shouldn't have to go today!

But - now the moment has arrived for him to take his place in prison - he offers no excuses.

And I will miss him.

I clasp him tight.

I bounce him on my knee.

I wish he didn't have to go

.

* * * * *

To distract myself, I've spent the morning planting flowerpots.

Every day, from now on, I'll gather a good harvest of slugs; one from beneath each.

(Snails cluster;
slugs sleep alone.)

Then, having returned the pots to their semi-submerged places in the earth, I'll fill them with water. It will seep gently and economically only to the roots which need it. Precision gardening!

* * * * *

I've been out at the front too, pulling the last teasles and checking on the clover.

(Bright, green - and spreading!)

I've planted the first Romanesque.

I've planted the first nasturtium.

(If they are still there tomorrow, I'll plant more.)

(If they aren't; I won't.)

I hear someone mowing grass.

I HEAR THE BUS.

* * * * *

_____

For Tomorrow