It’s a typical late july evening in Ireland. Dark grey skies are looming above our little garden. The summer wind is moving the clouds along and patches of blue remind me the old sun is still up there somewhere, shining.
I can see my father down by the roadside chatting with our gardener. Willy is his name. He’s been working out in the front for the last few days now, he and his son in law. I’ve seen them pass the windows every so often with wheelbarrows full of weeds and all the unwanteds, but really... other than having them join us inside for a cup of tea and some scones earlier in the day... one would almost forget they were out there.
While I sit inside here doing my best to conjure up some lyrics for a new song, waiting dreamily for my brain to plant just a shimmer of inspiration in it, I look out and see a different garden from the one that was there a few days ago. It looks clean, and orderly, kind of like it can breathe again, and the earth looks fluffy and new. I find myself admiring and envying the sweat and brawn approach to getting things done that Willy and his son obviously possess. Seems like a more productive life approach than my creative intellectual limbo. They do and get things done. It must feel good at the end of a long days work, to be able to look around and see exactly what you’ve accomplished.
I’ve been here hours and all I’ve got are two lines on an otherwise blank page. But they do rhyme… so I suppose I accomplished something
