Garden the Past

I was told last night that the man two doors down from me is dead. That is to say, he has died, and he no longer lives there, because he is dead. I'm not suggesting that he is inhabiting the house in an undead capacity. Because he isn't, he is dead.

I didn't know him at all really, I only ever saw him sat on his doorstep as I walked or drove past, and he always seemed happy enough. That is pretty much the extent of my knowledge of him. Strange to think that with the huge size of the earth and the multitude of people upon it, that even people who must have spent years and years within 40 foot of me can be completely outside my sphere of experience.

My bedroom window looks out onto his back garden, which, since we live on the side of a hill, stretches upwards quite steeply. For this reason, a number of the back gardens in my street are untended, covered with sprawling brambles and weeds. Some people are more resilient in their garden-tending habits, however, and so precarious sheds, flowerbeds and decking adorns certain plots, looking like a collaboratory project between Kevin McCloud and Tim Burton.

The back garden of the house two doors down was rigorously tended. It didn't have the new shininess of the garden that, at great effort, had gravity-defying decking installed, nor the simplicity of the plots where it is merely grass, cut short. It doesn't have the collected order of my grandparents old garden did, which, since it was further up the street, was subject to a less extreme incline, and was larger, allowing for spacing out of the glasshouse and the shed, with a small patio area and a stretch of grass.

The garden is busy and full, with any likely bit of turf used to a definite purpose, to make the most of the small, difficult terrain. There are a patch of flowers, I am not able to give much more information on them, if I was ever described as having green fingers then it would definitely be in connection to a medical mishap. They are purple, with long stems. They look slightly overgrown now, looking more like wildflowers than I assume they must have done when they had someone to tend to them. I can't be certain of that though, since I never paid the garden any attention whatsoever until this afternoon. The garden has been partitioned into levels, with the flower level being the lowest I can see from my oblique angle, it is likely raised from the ground level by a wall. The level above the flowers is still covered in growth, though I make a distinction because they are plants rather than flowers. I'm not overly sure whether that is a distinction botanists/biologists would make, the chasm is my own knowledge is becoming clearer with every entry of this I write. These plants aren't bearing any sort of fruit, and it is only because of the strips of bamboo that are holding them straight that I assume they are in fact, plants. There's a small wooden construction holding these bamboo strips upright, it's odd that nature gets anything done considering how much needs to be done to make even a tiny garden grow to specifications. Upturned cans of Fosters adorn the top of the bamboo, though I needed to strain my eyes to make out the brand as the cans have faded due to the sun. Considering how little sun we get in these parts, the cans must have been there for quite some time.

On the level above that, the highest level, is a sturdy old shed, which, if it bears any resemblance to the one which used to stand in my grandfather's garden, I would not enjoy being inside. The rust and the mustiness of old tools and compost, hollow watering cans and a coating of spider's webs, it is that kind of shed in my speculations. The sort of spiders that would inhabit such an outdoor indoors would be the fat, strong kind which fill me with the same kind of revulsion, and trigger the gag reflex upon seeing them, in the same way I get when George Osborne is on the TV. It is the sort of shed that is filled with functions that I do not understand, and have no interest, currently, of involving myself with.

Some of the windows of the shed are open, and I feel disquieted looking at them, because I don't know whether or not they should be open or not. Are they always left open to air the shed, or were they left open the one specific time? And now the person who knows whether they should be open or not is unable to affect their positioning.

The garden is, perhaps, sadder to see than the insides of the house (not that I did or will see that). The garden was working towards a purpose. It was a cyclical beast, an organism that was growing and being replanted, growing and being replanted. It was the culmination of the plans of one man, and with that planning force removed, the garden will eventually leave the cyclical path it was meant to be following, eventually growing unmanageable or having a new vision imposed upon it. Perhaps it will be utterly scrapped, and a completely new cycle will be established, an utterly different organism in the exact same geographical location. Perhaps some of the garden will be salvaged, and incorporated into a Frankenstein's garden type creature.

I didn't realise when I woke up this morning that I would actually be interested in the fate of a garden. Perhaps I'm being possessed.

I hope that when new people eventually move into the house I remember this line of thought and watch the garden cycle.

I could also stop being so lazy and actually sort out the garden behind my own house, which is insanely overgrown with pickies. Although that would require that I become the sort of person who goes inside sheds and knows what is in there, and not only that, knows what those things are for. I already know what's inside sheds; rust, must, tools, compost, cans and webs.

I'll stick to watching through the window.