Carry water

In the dry heat at the bach, at first I flop.

 But the garden is crying with dryness. Weakened plants attract pests. The tomatoes have a serious thirst.
And so I begin to carry water, bucket after bucket, up the steps and into the garden.

I'm glad I'm not a day or two later. The tomatoes are laden, but none of the fruit has ripened. There's plenty of heat, and well composted soil, but water is needed too.

And the courgettes are parched, bravely putting out their sunshine flowers, in which the bees come to dawdle and roll, but the little courgettes are pathetic. They start with a bang and end with a whimper, in the form of a little yellow soppy snout. Two courgettes did form completely, but are distorted (thin, fat, then thin again) and hard.
Up and down the steps I go, in the cool of the morning and the cool of the evening, carrying bucket after bucket of water. Yes, I know what it is to have lost the well.

I even dare to plant a few oak-leafed lettuces, watering them in well.

The flax watches in its own cool way, for it can thrive on little. The rest of the garden heaves a big sigh of thanks as it drinks deep.
And to my surprise, a small poem forms, popping into my awareness like a baby courgette.

And after only 4 days of this, before I leave, I am able to harvest the vegetables that have perked up and grown as if in a hothouse during my visit, and even the first tomato that has begun to ripen.
It all happened so fast.

Pouring glass

after glass

of shining life

into my body;

knowing that 

tending

is not what I do

while waiting 

for the real

thing.

It is

the real

thing.