Olive’s Pot

I have a good view from here.  I have come to like it even though its not Olives’ garden. Olive loved roses, especially the tiny hedgerow kind.  They dotted the hedge at the front of her garden, white and pale pink mostly.  There was a red rambler climbing up beside her front door.  The scent on hot summer days was heavenly. Apart from the weeds sprouting up between the cracks in the paving stones, it was roses, roses, roses.

Now I see pansies, daffodils, crocuses and snowdrops.  There are no weeds between the cracks.  The scent of the flowers is fainter but with a good breeze blowing in my direction, its very pleasant.  It’s very peaceful here too.  Not like Olive’s garden which faced the road with just the rose laden hedge and a thin wooden fence between it and the pavement.  I could hear footsteps, voices, traffic and the constant hum of the bees amongst the roses.

Now I face a wooden fence.  It’s very quiet here, just a splash of water and birds chirping. Relaxing and calm.

I was younger when I lived with Olive and I enjoyed the sounds around me – it was lively and friendly.  Now I am older, I prefer the quiet.  It gives me more time to think and ponder.

I am beginning to feel my age in other ways too.  My base feels gritty and sandy.  I can almost feel the small sharp pieces of grit and gravel underneath me.  My sides feel worn and I have chips in my rim.  I know I am losing my gloss too.  I am not the smart, new, gleaming planter I once was.  I need the rain to wash away the dirt caking my side and I know for a fact that I am slightly wobbly – whoever stood me up this morning, did it in a rush and I am not quite in the centre of my slab anymore.  I can see a bit more of the glass doors behind me than I used to.  But the curtains are pulled tightly across and have been for a while now.  In fact, ever since I was knocked over last night.

It was a bit of a shock actually. Wham, suddenly a weight on the right side of my rim, there was a gravelly, slithering sound and I found myself lying on my left precariously balanced on my slab. Earth spilled from me onto the patio and the tulip bulbs tilted, dangling over the spilt earth.  I lay there all night with an obscure view of the sky and the moon and the edge of the glass doors, the curtains blocking any view into the room beyond.  There were lights though and the sound of people’s footsteps, some hurried.  Voices whispering, a door slamming.  Then a bright blue light swirling around above my head, more footsteps, heavy and solid. Doors opening and closing, anxious voices “What’s happening” “Will she be OK”.  Engines starting up, traffic noise receding then suddenly ….nothing.  Just me, the earth, the bulbs and the moon.