I am going to replace my last lawn as soon as the weather is good for establishing new plants. It is a tokenistic 1.5m square just outside my front door that is used mostly for tom-cat calling card turds, but this year the two nests in the front garden meant I didn't do anthing out there, and now there is no lawn, only a metres-high tangle of mint, sorrel, alkanet and grass. It looks pretty bad, but the Housemartins still haven't fledged, so it's staying for now.
If only it looked as good as this:
This is the watermeadow, on the way into work. Fluffy grassses, scattered flowers, throngs of insects. It'll probably be cut soon for hay, but for now it's green, lush and perfect.
The beauty of overgrown grass is an evanescent thing. A hard wind, a dry week, a storm, a strike, the trampling feet of some large mammal, and gorgeous glistening meadow heads into the rough; dusty, sruffy, tangled and dull.
Cut it then, for now, oh do not cut it.
If only it looked as good as this:
This is the watermeadow, on the way into work. Fluffy grassses, scattered flowers, throngs of insects. It'll probably be cut soon for hay, but for now it's green, lush and perfect.
The beauty of overgrown grass is an evanescent thing. A hard wind, a dry week, a storm, a strike, the trampling feet of some large mammal, and gorgeous glistening meadow heads into the rough; dusty, sruffy, tangled and dull.
Cut it then, for now, oh do not cut it.
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