The Weed’s View


She rejoices in her gardening skills. In her garden she feels herself surrounded by a fragrant beauty that she, herself, nurtured.

She had first cleared the ground of all weeds – a painstaking task. Each one had to be individually discovered and pulled out by its roots. So no descendant should have life.

Then she covered that ground with a layer of moist and pungent fertile earth. Over this she laid down a black fibreglass cloth. “To keep new weeds from growing”, she said authoritatively. She cut holes in the cloth to plant her flowers – her special darlings – in the receptive earth below. And she surrounded her planted beauties, each with its own mound of wood chips, as a double precaution against those scurrilous weeds that might peep through.

Her pretty flowers were not utilitarian – not something to be eaten; they were there purely for aesthetic appeal – a garden of color. Her creation.

Only species selected by her personal tastes grew in her garden. She had eliminated all traces of unwanted growth.  No foreign interlopers. She stood back and admired her work of botanical genocide.