By Shepherd Ogden
IT’S SPRING AT LAST. The crocuses are peaking from beneath the detritus of another winter, the lawns are showing some green-shine amongst the scruff left from short days and long chill nights. In the garden, garlic and chives are emerging and the cool weather weeds are rushing to seed. In the cold frame, a lot of crop plants that used to be considered weeds are still supplying salads six months after we planted them last October.
It is a truism that the flow of everyday life in its fullness is uninteresting, and that the various arts distill life, as for example, musical notes distill the silences before them to between. Our gardens, and the crops in them, are similarly called out from the background of the landscape, refined and shaped to our needs and pleasures though we can no more exclude or replace that nature than the musician can excise the silences that give meaning to the notes. It