Reminded of a poem I wrote years ago.
I have shared before, re-edited. It is buried somewhere in this ‘rolling om’.
This was the original, raw, version.
Back when I was an ‘automatic writing’ purist.
Never edit. The rule.
Take the first words, even if they do not make sense.
Let it flow.
It suprised me.
Within This Frame of Gold
Going, gorn and wasting
Jealousy of nobody, but wearing all the wrong gear.
Clambering aimlessly toward a gaping sun in noisy abandon.
Slowly winding up the painted sky and screaming dreams of nothing.
Teeth and toes in constant turmoil, struggling with words, and sand, that stick, like saliva, to my soul.
Raining thunder and gold, the open fire cackles.
Calling children and piling paper to throw away the chewed pencil ends of culture to the waiting bird, a-preying,
Floating from the earth and carrying our limitations away to fester in the jaws of snails.
Bodies fumble, boneless, in the snake infested grass.
Sneezing quickly, gunning down the possibilities.
With the heads of tortoises they pulled in their hearts and listened only to their greed.
Trees wailed as the scar tissue grew and we picked up our spears and clubs for war.
In everyone there is an Indian, exhausted from the battle,
That screaming at the reptile skulls, ignored and angry,
will sit down and drown their own identity.
Heavy lids and worn out actions.
Golden winds and shimmering heat of winding, brick-like beating.
Mind and torso in clambering war dance.
Smelling of tannin and leaping in joy.
Rings and pockets full of envy
Green with jealousy and slow poison.
Why, when ships can pace an ocean, do the smiling reptiles seed to destroy that voting freedom?
Then plugging into mothering, feeling only sadness in the core of woven fabrics.
Oh to be an Indian in this society,
True to cyclic winds and calling,
Slowly grimacing at this torture.
The spearing, grasping, destroying,
All within this frame of gold.
Kat Robertson. 1991.
And, on the theme of ‘gold’, this was a stunning moment here on the hill.
After a dull day, just as the sun was setting, a blanket of golden Light slid under the cloud and spilled out over the land.
All the new leaves shimmered and sang.
All seemed stunned into silence and awe.
Even the birds fell quiet.
Here it comes again.
Over and over, all is thrown up, stark against the Sky.
On landing, reassembled in a new and curious shape.
Spread out thin across the constant, living, Ground.
Before I get a chance to catch my breath
It comes again.
These seismic shifts create a chaos and confusion that can only be allowed for,
Such is its Might and Power.
There is no rider. No helmsman. No pilot. No driver.
All sense of knowing as fragile as the new leaves that burst out all around.
Only fierce Love to hold on to in turbulent Times like these.
Kat Robertson. April 2021.
(video created by scattering mustard seed on the skin of a drum and banging it. Audio only what resulted when the video was slowed down.)
Farewell to social media!
Good riddance to all fake illusion!
Ears under assault only from the huge, wooding, trucks that rumble by with their heavy load, tearing up our only access with their ‘mother fucking’ wheels.
My husband pissing like a horse in the bathroom, the radio plays in the background.
Only birdsong, the weather this morning, and strong black coffee for stimulation.
This is enough.
I have suffered enough!
I have seen the Matrix.
Smashed through all reflective surfaces.
I now turn my back on the whole affair and simply walk away from this ‘net’.
I no longer desire to be ‘caught’.
It seems now such a foolish ambition.
And such a waste of, increasingly precious, Time.
May the only screens I ever see again be blank.
Inviting me to fill them.
With my own words.
My own creativity.
Farewell too to eternal, samey, box-sets and the buffering wheel.
In the evenings let us lie in the wash of crappy, satellite, TV, with nothing much on of real interest.
Surfing through channels and instantly gratified.
Talking though it all and tearing the advertisements apart.
Offering each other cups of tea.
Chatting about our days.
Sharing space in unity, gathered around that single screen,
while wondering at all the inanity going on in the world.
This is other people’s lives.
Once I decried television as the ‘drug of the Nation’ with its force-fed narrative, I had no idea, then, what was to follow.
Now it seems like an old freind.
At least it does not pretend to be what it is not.
Enough of these tailored, curated, ‘cult of the individual’, bubbles that pull us all further apart!
How can Nature even have a chance to captivate and call us, out of our own heads, into the fresh world all around,
With so much choice, provided by so few, to view?
I see more beloved trees on this screen these days than I do in real Life! Despite living where I do!
I caught myself just in time, before each flower, each sunset, became little more than a photo oppurtunity.
Real views are mainly sky (and I do not mean the telecommunications company)
The real webs made by real spiders.
The real hives made by bees and wasps.
Clouds are made of water droplets and store nothing but rain, though sometimes ice.
To compute means to process, a computer is nothing but a processor.
If servers provide a service why then do I then serve them such rich helpings?
Home is where we live, and so much more than a landing page.
A board can never be described as a Mother.
I once believed the internet gave us all a voice, but now all I hear is a roar.
If opinions are like water, this is now a waterfall so loud, no sense can be made of it, other than acknowledging its raw power and influence (or should that be effluence?!)
The water is brown and filthy, like the run-off from a municipal waste disposal facility.
All good work diluted by grey water.
Every droplet recorded and, expensively, stored by the Machine.
A rich harvest randomly to be analysed by employed scientists of behaviour and psychology.
Who work for an elite who seek to control the flow.
The Machine now trusted by its programmers to weed out the chaff.
All at the mercy of the algorithm.
The likes of children, brought up by the Machine, considered more profitable than any elder’s warnings.
I gave my whole self to IT so willingly!
Blinded by this blue Light and the prospect of, perhaps, being seen and heard.
I have ridden those rapids and find myself, now, bruised, going round and round in eddies of foam,
Swirling , restless, over a deep, dark, pool, just below the falls.
Pushed to the edge with broken trees, discarded plastic, and old news.
Holding onto the rocks to catch my breath.
Gathering my strength to haul myself back onto the bank.
Kat Robertson March 2021
A creative attempt to summarize/record my, month-long, participation in this remarkable project.
My original, published, ‘cool’ captions and inspiring ‘Earth quotes’ became lost to the ether when I chose to delete my Facebook account…..which is just as well….as with hindsight it seems I was not really listening…..some of my posts where only text and gone forever now ….but this is all the visual work I shared with the group….cobbled together, chronologically, and with new meaning.
It all began with Nuts.
Those prefectly designed, well travelled, nuggets of both nutrition and potential.
(Reminded now, also. in hindsight, of an Egyptian Nut.
Daughter of vital breath and heat, a star-covered naked woman, bowed over the Earth,
With her head in the West and her feet in the East. A bridge between the Earth and the Sky.)
I wondered how this ‘tree’ would grow from there…..
The endangered red squirrel became my constant companion on this journey.
And, as always here, the Wind.
Winter Hawthorn showed me her sharp, protective, thorns…..
The Beech hedge whispered ‘Sssssh…..ssssh’……
Mole spoke to me of staying buzy, but remaining underground, unseen…..
Mosses demonstrated how to cling on and thrive, on only cold, ungiving, stone……
But I was not really listening …….
And worms writhed in the compost heap of my mind, giving birth to strange new, artifical, creatures….
I have a well-weathered head.
Colonized now by Nature.
Worn away by Time.
Still able, though, to see those ‘Spots of Light’ and bask in their Radiance.
Celebrate their Beauty.
That is, until I see when I venture out, again and again, our trashing of everything Sacred …
And I am returned to Grieving.
Yet, I was reminded, in that Darkness, there is always Light.
You only have to find new ways of Seeing.
It is Imbolc.
A time of Rebirth. Of Future. A Time of New Beginnings and Returning Light.
Humble Snowdrops blaze a fanfare.
Spring is on its way.
The soil gives way to green, urgent, spears of New Life, pushing up toward the Sun.
Even, inside our winter home, the houseplants put on a show of wondrous, exotic, blooms.
Out walking I was shown something weird, almost alien, something that I had never encountered before.
Earth spoke to me again of all the unseen wonders that she holds.
That Living can only ever be learning.
I cracked open my first rotten egg in a long, long time.
The smell was of Sulphur.
I learned that Humans create more Sulphur now than is released by all the Earth’s volcanos put together.
So Humans smell, to the Earth, of Sulphur too.
A smell associated with Decay.
And the breaking open of her Crust.
Then we were invited to dig deep and find our authentic Howl.
Always a tough one.
It turned out my Howl is, and has always been, my felt Impotence in affecting any real Change
Through what I am able to do, through my own unique gifts.
Earth told me it was OK to share, again, some work I have already done.
For it is Work that has not lost Value through Age.
Just as I have not lost Value.
Work created when I first began to Give the Earth a Voice online.
(Though, at that time, I thought I was Alone in doing so.)
Sharing this Work, reminded me that I have been Standing here a long, long Time already.
And brought home how committed I am to doing it still.
Rarely witnessed and, in the main, uncelebrated.
As undeserving of applause as a weed in a lawn.
A rock, the moss or a twisted tree.
A sea squirt.
Or a hooded crow.
This is not a show.
A creature of magik and alchemy.
Who no longer needs to shout out “I am here!”
Because, in the course of this experiment, the only One who really matters told me that:
She Loves me,
that She is Sorry,
that She Forgives me
and is Grateful for all that I do.
And when I heard that back….
I just Let Go.
I AM HOME
and that is where you’ll always find me.
Kat Robertson. Standing As Earth. Imbolc 2021
I am staring at this screen.
How to condense the Experience?
The above barely scratches the surface.
Now only recorded in pages and pages and pages and pages and pages
of messy, scrawled notes, avid, crazed, chanelled, journalling …processing …..too much to edit.
And this trail of shared artworks.
I have deleted my Facebook account.
Deleted all social media accounts.
I am too much to edit.
It was Earth that called me to withdraw from all that fight to be seen.
The fight to feel heard.
While I celebrate all who are able to continue this work of being visible online.
Who have those skills.
I have become exhausted from trying to find new ways to say such a simple thing.
There simply are no words left in my limited vocabulary.
I can tell you how I felt when I first saw the online invitation.
YES! YES! What a brilliantly simple idea!
Let’s ALL Stand AS Earth.
Earth, my true Nature, guides me now to simply write of the WEATHER during this month long experiment #standingasearth on Facebook.
The Weather of Standing As Earth
It began with a, freezing, Siberian Wind that howled from the East.
Screaming over vast, populated, landmasses,
Carrying all that stale air,
To meet the ocean
All the way from China, it came hurtling through, at tree-breaking ,wave-hurling, speed,
Onward over the Atlantic, toward the East Coast of the Americas.
It was hard, sometimes, to Breathe.
The Land became hard too, as iron.
It’s Life Blood frozen.
Impermanent diamonds grew in the Mud.
And the Trees grew hair of Ice.
Until the very Dryness turned it all to Dust.
Dust that came Alive, like dervishes, like dancers,
Rising, with the gusting wind, up from the Ground.
Gritty in my eyes.
Making me Cry.
And then it Snowed.
And all became Still and Silent.
And all became Clear and Sharply defined.
Blueish and Breathtaking.
The Light alone, a sensory orgasm.
And then, it all, inevitably,
The winds have never stopped blowing.
They are blowing still.
They have just swung around a bit and radically changed direction.
I found I had been blown off course.
I found myself, full circle, called back into the Mystery.
I found I was, already, HOME.
Kat Robertson. Standing As Earth. Imbolc 2021
My last post on Facebook, after realising I felt I had shared way too much, and deleting my account, was this.
It hangs on the wall of my ‘artden’.
And, while not my own words, says all I really have left to say of any worth.
My continued prayer is only that more of us will find this Truth and try their very best to LIVE BY IT.
And each find their own ,unique, Balance.
(N.B. I have only just realised that when a person deletes their Facebook account, they disappear, also, from all groups. As if they had never been there at all. I experience a deep sadness about that, as I fell in Love, with new brothers and sisters, and Earth, over and over again, during this month of participation …….. despite not joining in on Zoom! Now guided just to rest in the Knowing that we are, all connected, through the Forest floor. )
All is frozen hard.
Stunning patterns in the mud.
Water moves the Land.
Kat Robertson January 2021
Most know that I prefer natives,
but what child can resist giant sunflowers.
Gifted some seed, up they shot.
Charging for the sun.
One was the tallest I have ever grown.
But this pride came before a fall.
As late summer gales began to blow.
I watched, through the window, as it swung wildly.
So I staked it.
I thought I was helping.
But the gusts beheaded it.
Right at the tie.
If I had left it alone, given it the freedom to move with the wind,
I think it would have survived.
So often this is the case.
We think we are helping, but all we are really doing is curbing her responsive wildness,
Weeding out her repairs, re-routing her rivers, deciding what we think is best for her.
When will we ever learn?
I put the tight, architectural, bud in a vase.
Blow me! It still fought to flower, to thrive.
I cheered it on.
Turning the bloom to face the sun when it came out.
But to no avail.
Eventually it gave up.
And drew back in.
Disconnected from the Mother, it shrivelled and died.
No future. No seed. Without soil.
Meanwhile, out in the garden, the others survived more storms.
With no support from me.
Such autumnal JOY!
Most interesting to note was how the same seed, the same pot grown seedlings, when planted else where, grew in proportion to the pot/conditions available.
Would that we would learn to do the same!
Daydreaming of Giant country folk and Lillipution city dwellers.
Remembering those wee, hardy, land carved, Picts with the, famously, tiny doors…..
Our western children, statisically, are all growing bigger and taller.
More of them too.
Growing like those other plants, artifically reared, under perfect lights with perfect food.
At what cost??
Cannot help but see the whole of humanity in this tall sunflower’s teaching.
Disconnected from Mother we will not thrive indefinitely.
Artficially nourished, all growing too big for the space we are afforded, taking from elsewhere, we grow out of balance with all that sustains us.
When will we ever learn?
The Starling Tree
What is this noisy kind of alchemy?
Turned my head to see
Against the sky.
Watching as bird became tree.
As tree became bird.
Becoming One, all held by the Light.
Kat Robertson September 2020
UPDATE 29th October: Spent many days ‘mandalizing’ recently and made this mandala of the starling tree. It belongs here!
(An alternative version of my experience, of the Gaia Hut’s first outing.)
‘Sycamore’, ‘knapweed’, ‘meadow sweet’, ‘larch’,
Noticing so many affected. Ash die-back. The Tree of Life. Dying back…..
‘hazel’, ‘common reed’, ‘rowan’, ’hello Heron!’
I recited their names, on my daily commute, bowing in apology for my polluting motion, as I passed.
‘alder’, ‘birch’, ‘hawthorn’,
(‘what is that purple one shining so now?’)
‘beech’, ‘elder’, ‘horse chestnut’,
‘hawkbit’, ‘ragwort’ and so on,
I’d nod to them as I drove past, stopping, sometimes,
to breathe, to pick glorious seed heads for my little venue’s vase.
A single, gale-surviving, garden, sunflower nodded back at me when I entered the village, and was always turned to face me when I left.
I loved its sunny welcome and farewell.
(I’d lost my tallest sunflower in the wild winds of the week.
I’d tried to help it by tying it to a stake.
It’s head had snapped at that tie. When will I ever learn?
A lesson in there somewhere.)
More alders. Seeing alders everywhere here.
A local wise-woman taught me that Ardfern, translated, is Aird Fheàrna in Gaelic, land of the alder trees.
I thought of how they ‘bleed’ when I harvest the bark for my pigment.
And laughed at myself when I thought of my, grown-from-seed, seedlings at home, when they were everywhere here, to transplant, so close to our hill.
Whoo Hoo! Whoo Hoo!
The wood pigeons were always calling as I arrived to open up.
‘Whoo-Hoo!’ I felt inside, as I sipped my fresh, meadowsweet, tea.
We do not have many of those on the hill. Wood pigeons.
The neighbours, clean-lined, zen-garden, trickled water all day.
I did not always use the toilet in the house, twice I squatted behind the trailer, in a weedy corner, among the docks and red campion.
Unseen, under the ash trees.
Marking my spot, for the village dogs and cats.
My host, and dear freind’s, old setter was fading.
He lost the use of his back legs during our exhibition.
My freind coped amazingly.
I knew he was near the end, but could not share it,
with the family keeping such Hope alive.
So moving to spend Time with him
and bear witness to the family’s Love for their dear companion.
I caught myself dancing when the wind whirled.
The weather made me ‘dance’ around the Hut often.
Fixing shelter. Taking it down. Opening up and Closing up. Lighting the fire and letting it go out.
The gravel felt hard underfoot, but I’d think of the reflexology I was getting and smile.
I was often fascinated by a tree, I called the ‘starling tree’, against the sky and how, silhouetted, the birds became leaves, until they flew away.
Noisy leaves. So full of chatter.
We don’t see starlings on our hill either.
There was a stone.
My guardian stone.
In the edge of the flower border, who kept me company during this event.
It had two faces. One that smiled when the sun came out, another that looked grumpy in the rain.
It spoke to me of the tragedy and comedy of it all.
Of the hypocrisy.
I painted its two faces, as a hanging slate, slate with a hole in it, I had found in their garden, as gift for the family.
The children were delighted to meet him.
And to know that he lived in their garden.
Such beauty in this garden. Such Love.
Huge sunflowers, a stunning, single, artichoke, dahlias, Californian poppies, geraniums, buddleia, brassica flowers, sweet peas, tomatoes, leeks, wild greens, kale and more.
All thriving in this small, sheltered patch.
Chickens clucked under the Lime.
Cabbage white butterflies danced in the air, when the sun came out.
I really noticed though, the lack of other butterflies this year. At home and here too. More on the brassicas than the verbena or buddleia.
More gifts for their garden arrived during our event, transplanted ferns and more trees.
Huge paper birch, red cherry and mountain ash.
An over-buy from a neighbour of hers.
They did not want them to die when they went away again for a while.
They had no Time to plant them.
I collected some flowers from the bountiful garden, always asking permission, for my flower press.
Something to remember this Time by, this colour, when I use them, later, in winter, to make something new.
I joked that I was their garden gnome for the duration.
A friend joined me, barefoot, for a while.
I taught her how to twist the rushes, she showed me new ‘hearts’ in the gravel.
They reminded us both of a mutual, dear friend, who had passed.
She told us tales of Africa and gifted me a twisted, willow, heart, now part of the Gaia Hut.
I popped in to visit another friend, while I was in the village, and came home with laden with bags of ‘surplus’ collected seaweed, that I laid out in the rain, to wash the salt off, touching ocean, before laying it on my autumn-prepared patch to rot down over winter and feed the soil. The best kind of gift!
On the last day I was given a potted rose by one friend and a bottle of Cava by another.
I felt like a queen, or a graduate, as I bore these home.
Overwhelmed with Gratitude.
The purple one was ‘loosestrife’.
Amazing how in looking all these years I had never met this one before!
Always so much to learn.
No, it told me, you are not losing it.
You are loosening it.
Kat Robertson. August 2020.
in Memoriam of the mature Eucalyptus that leaned out over the road from the gardens of Craigdhu farmhouse
planted? – 2020
succumbed to the sudden south-westerly gales during May’s lockdown of 2020
To the tree, The tree that marked the exciting promise of youthful shenanigans. The tree that called me back to a place, That then welcomed me with open arms Each time I turned off the main trunk road along this smaller branching way. The tree that leaned ever further over all who entered here As if trying to vet them as they passed. The tree whose ancestors came from the other side of the world. Whose presence reminded some, who have settled here, of Home. The tree that succumbed, eventually, to Wind and Time, The tree that will forever be growing still, alive and well, In so many of our memories. Kat Robertson June 2020
Sadly, these are the best of the photographs I can find of this local tree legend, when it was alive and towering over village B-road.
It was such an iconic landmark for all who lived here.
It felt like a physical blow to see it lying here.
I stopped the car and spent some Time with it.
I ‘asked’ for some bark and a piece of wood that I thought I might try and make a didgeridoo with it….but having researched how to do it I am not sure my skills are up to that! No termites here to have naturally hollowed it out!
The bark looks a bit like a tribal warrior, to me, walking along, when vertical, and reminisent of a local landscape, when horizontal….
Then there came another local, art initiative.
A Craignish ‘lockdown’ postcard art exhibition!
Postcard sized creations on the theme of ‘Craignish Lockdown’.
Blank postcards to be collected from the village shop and returned to the special postbox on the counter, or the co-ordinator…
To be exhibited in the village hall and, hopefully seen, as restrictions to movement and social distancing roles ‘loosen’.
Another wonderful idea!
This is my submission.
In honor of this old freind we have lost during this Time.
I painted the tree, using just the local mud, then hid that behind an aboriginal style, dot-work, design, as a nod to it’s ancestors.
The central ‘dots’ were punched out the bark of the tree itself and stuck on.
I wrote the poem above on the back.
Looking forward to seeing everyone’s ‘lockdown art’ all together… soon’ish’!?
It’s ‘No Mow May’.
The mowing machines are parked.
Dockans grow between their wheels.
Daises and eyebright twinkle in the sun.
Ox-eye, clover, plantain and stitchwort.
Orchids, buttercups, cuckoo flowers and ragwort.
Nod in the breeze.
So lively with the sound of humming bees.
Bugle flowers are blowing, glowing.
The dandelions roar.
The swallows dart low over this living sea.
And every grass seed and waving dock seems adorned with shiny beetles, damson fly and spiders.
So much more than just ‘hay’.
Granted, not so inviting for a cartwheel or a rug.
I find I walk more carefully, barefoot, through it.
Experience a slight fear.
Of lurking thistle prick and nettle sting.
Of crushing something precious.
Of being bitten.
Fallow is not shallow.
It is, at least, knee high.
I stand in this new habitat and appear to grow from it.
I had no idea that all this was here.
Waiting for this opportunity.
So conditioned I had become to cut, make it all tidy.
My need for ease and pleasure prioritised over the flowers right to be.
Now standing here, no longer a Conqueror.
Almost a Saviour.
In the ‘not doing’ I have given birth to
What brilliant flowers might grow in our collective minds I wonder.
Now that societies noisy machine has ground to a halt.
What wild dreaming is, at last, allowed to grow through those silent wheels?
That is one ‘job’ less.
No longer necessary to push those blades, to keep up, fit in.
No longer necessary to keep ’emptying the bag’, in order to stop the mental mower choking with overload.
To make our thoughts all neat and ordered.
Write lists and fill our diaries with ‘things to do’.
To pull out all the ‘weeds’.
What colours, what ideas would self-seed there?
What life would colonize?
Somethings that bite may move in. Some darker prickles.
That we must learn to walk around, accommodate.
But I feel sure there would soon bloom
So many flowers, bursting through,
at last allowed,
To reveal themselves.
Kat Robertson May 2020
And here is the follow-up piece….shared to Facebook 9th of June.
“I caved under pressure.
No Mow May is now officially over.
Where have all the flowers gone?
The problem seems to be that HE has a MACHINE to do this.
That the machine cannot cope if it gets TOO thick.
That ‘What is the point of having this machine if it is not used?’
The once broken,discarded, ride-on, he rescued and repaired last year.
He wants to ‘give it another trim’ too.
I begged him not to.
I suggested a scythe, glancing at his growing girth.
I could have scythed it in Autumn….
But then again…..the docks were starting to seed, rushes, thistles and brambles finding feet, hiding in the grasses….
I spent years digging out the docks, a battle only mowing wins.
We live in a wild place. So full of Life.
There is some comfort in ‘carving a patch’, away from ticks and midges, thorns and stinging nettles.
(It was also one of the ‘worthy’ PAID jobs for teenage boys.
No Mow meant less MONEY for them.)
Just the other day I was ‘wondering’ and found two orchids growing in HIS yard.
(the bigger kind, the rarer kind, not yet in flower)
I made a mental note to let him know where they were.
I heard the strimmer too late.
Such cruel timing, I had not even seen him to say!!
I wept and fell to my knees, talking to the Earth, asking forgivness, and searching for where they once were, to dig them out and replant them somewhere safe.
But could find nothing, just a few speckled leaves thrown out among the grass cuttings.
As I felt around in this ‘war zone’, something moved, where the orchid used to be.
A tiny, tiny lizard.
I cupped it in my hands and showed it to him, my face wet with tears.
‘How amazing that this little thing survived!! Imagine how it experienced your strimmer. Absolute apocalypse!’
He seemed unmoved, defensive.
‘I cannot see these things when I am strimming!’ he said, as if by explanation.
‘Do you even know they are there!? Do you see anything?!!’ I retorted, a tad unreasonably.
I took the lizard to a safer place, where I see other lizards often.
At least he has agreed to leave some wilder bits…..it has taken me years to convince him of this.
I am waiting for a new rake to come through the post.
(Raking is also a paid job for boys.)
We will spread out the ‘hay’ and it will feed the ‘lawn’, any extra will be mulch for my garden.
The scythe will not come out of the shed this year, except perhaps for some bracken here and there.
The bees all seem to be buzzing in the flowerless hawthorn hedge, alarmed.
It is ME that cuts the hedge.
I am the reason it remains a, flowerless, fruitless, hawthorn.
Having researched this I had already determined to leave it alone this year, for flowers and berries next year, now that it is old enough.
Then I read, today, that a good idea is to cut alternate sides each year…..
I DID notice he had mowed AROUND the 3 tiny orchids in the lawn…….
Though ‘No Mow May’ now means I only hear screams, feel Death, when I hear those motors whining…..
All in the balance…… “
Kat Robertson June 2020