Four feet by six feet, good black soil in a good back garden. I stand, transfixed. When I was six, this plot was purgatory. It could swallow a sunny afternoon without mercy. It stretched, relentless, an Amazon of weeds with no beginning and no end and I would spend hour after miserable hour merely looking at the horror ahead. Punctuated here and there with a desultory dig, a scrape at the surface, dock or dandelion briefly inconvenienced as the whole, howling, heaving hoard of grinning, gobbling green grasped me, held me in sticky-willie stasis, a chickweed choke-hold between buttercup buttresses.
Today it's tiny. I could sweep it clean with three good strokes of the ***.
So I stand, at once amused and wistful lamenting not the verdant self-pity but wishing I was still so easily convinced of eternity.