14/4/2022 2 Comments SeedingThe seed ran off my hand without effort. The dry shells were smooth and uncomplicated. Time warped itself again. I thought of all the centuries of people that have seeded their fields by hand. Thought of how they too felt what I did: the inherent warmth of the seeds, the effortless way my fingers almost fell into the depths of the collection, and the loss as these grains drifted past my reach.
Sometimes a job is just a job, but sometimes it can lift our hope. This wee bit of seeding is habitat changing, I hope. In time, these black-brown banks will flourish with a rich variety of colour, but not only that. It’s not only our visual that’s important. The scabious will attract in six-spot burnets, the water avens will be perfect for small beetles, meadowsweet will send its delicious scent skyward, and the marsh thistle is perfect for the peacock butterfly. The yellow rattle will prevent the grasses from dominating, encouraging diversity, and the autumn hawkbit will provide food for pollinators further through the year. The beauty of these banks will be in their diversity, and in the diversity of life they provide space for.
I thought of all this as the squalls of rain passed, and the wind whipped the seed out my hand in any which direction – it wasn’t strong, the seeds fell within a metre of me, but they were spun about until they landed on terra firma. I thought of the growth, of how this habitat would change, of field voles and otters, of frogs and palmate newts. Of stalking lizards and basking slow worms and I felt present and happy: it might be a small impact, but it’ll be mine.
2 Comments
Stuart MacPherson
14/4/2022 05:43:11 pm
Delightful! Thanks Heather! Xx
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James Cooke
15/4/2022 06:57:40 am
So pleased you're sharing your writing again.
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