When Will It Rain?

The dry dry earth. I scoop water from the depths of the butt to give the emerging potatoes a drink. The sky broods but not a drop falls. The forecast is hot and dry for the weekend. A bird in the garden investigating the new fat ball L has hung there. I have been round the house and watered and fed the indoor plants - all 16 of them. A weak feed - a half of a tiny scoop of blue crystals. The car is dusty. I have to squirt screenwash and set the wipers in motion each time I drive.

Heading South tomorrow for even drier climes. To make meatballs for my Mum, and take her white lillies, and reassure her as best I can. To visit my sister who has a garden designer coming on Friday. Whose garden as I recall was entirely paved last time I saw it. To have lunch, and cups of tea, and conversations about employment, unemployment, my nephew and niece and the state of the coalition. Then over to SW London our old stomping ground, to meet L again, and hang out in our old local park (no doubt dry) with the 600 year old black walnut tree, til it's time to go and have dinner with friends. The next day to Kew Gardens - to visit amongst other old friends the Lucombe Oak, another venerable tree. I lean back into its mighty trunk and feel held, fed, supported. The ground beneath my feet will be dry as dust. That evening the 18th birthday party, in a cafe in beautiful gardens near the river. The next morning back over to my mother's to join her for Sunday roast lunch in the restaurant at her retirement village. Then there'll be some tennis - the first day of the French Open - played on that dusty red clay in Paris. My mother and I will watch while L reads, or snoozes. My mother will snooze. I will do the sudoku from her Times. On Monday morning we'll head for home, where rain is forecast.