The day before yesterday, so it was, on my early evening walk with my neighbours, I collected some wild mountain thyme from these Portuguese hills – where there is no bloomin’ heather, but yes, this time of year there are Flanders poppies and daisies, the kind whose petals you can count to see if you are loved.
Directly upon my return, I put lettuce seedlings gleaned from a fellow walker in the ground, then planted the thyme in a spare bit of dry old vegetable bed where I adjudged it will feel quite at home, and one plant was placed apart, somewhere else, in harsh, hard soil, like the ground from which I wrested it.
Time will tell what the thyme does. It was totally weird telling the story in Portuguese about a song of lassies possibly going to pluck wild mountain thyme whilst we all go together and so on. But that’s what I do. I tell little stories like that, even if my grasp on the grammar is tenuous. Never mind. My grasp on the thyme is firm enough, and, together with the encouragement of my dear neighbours, out came each plant in my hands, roots and all.
And so it was, that the pride and sense of satisfaction felt in the act of planting were conferred on the newly homed plants themselves. It has little to do with green thumbs, you see.
©2018 Allison Wright