Poppy seeds

AUGUST 21 03

That bottle of white wine she left in the fridge has almost gone. I don't usually like drinking a whole bottle of wine myself, on my own, but, on the other hand, why not? I never have any problem drinking a whole bottle of whisky on my own, though I haven't done that for a few years, well, not all the same night anyway.

In the twilight, in the garden, sound of a cricket bat striking a cricket ball, watching a spider spin a web over the sunset. Conversation with her who left the wine on her mobile walking home, could tell when she arrived home, change in the tone of voice, people staring at her, standing in the hall, she's gesturing she's on the phone. I let her go to join the world she's just walked into.

It's a bit early to be slightly sozzled, but not unpleasant. I keep walking into the garden, and back indoors again to write a sentence, and out again.

I'm striding about in my world, from living room to garden, a carpeted corridor and kitchen floor inbetween. Looking for something, but not terribly seriously.

Wine in my glass, I stop to partake of the scent of a white flowering bush just outside my kitchen door, this time not making it to the garden, can hear geese honking on the reservoirs. Not fully dark yet.

I've compared the leaves now, snapped one off the purple buddleia at the end of the garden and compared it, and the scent's the same, so maybe the white bush I haven't paid any attention to is also a buddleia. Yes, looking carefully under electric light the leaves are the same. Obviously I never realised that was a buddleia too.

The poppy heads are dried and rattle with seeds now. Have one I snapped off between my knees to keep it upright while typing after bringing it in to look at under the light and spilling poppy seeds on my desk. Marvellous dispensers of seeds.

In the end I just pour out seeds onto the desk to watch them flood out, then hold the poppy head by the broken stem between my lips while typing, my head angled to keep any remaining seeds from spilling out onto the carpet, or, worse, into the keyboard. I push the already spilled seeds into a pile and push them off the edge of the desk into my hand and go outside and distribute them, and those remaining in the seed-head I shake out, aware of being made use of by nature and that I am actually quite effective as a natural distributor of seeds the only thing it relies upon is me bothering to do it. Nature probably prefers to rely on the wind to sway the poppy heads and let the seeds tip out over the top out the little exit holes onto the adjacent soil, probably prefers to rely on the sparrows to pick up the seeds from the soil and take them elsewhere, but in one fell swoop I nonetheless snapped off a poppy head brought it indoors to look at not having a plan in the world and then out of the goodness of my heart took the spilled seeds outside and distributed them in the garden. Who can say it wasn't planned?