Seeding

​The seed ran off my hand without effort. The dry shells were smooth and uncomplicated. Time warped itself again. I thought of all the centuries of people that have seeded their fields by hand. Thought of how they too felt what I did: the inherent warmth of the seeds, the effortless way my fingers almost fell into the depths of the collection, and the loss as these grains drifted past my reach. 

Seeding the banks of a new pond with wet meadow seeds was a pleasure. We did the work in spring, on a very chilly day. The soil was damp, making it perfect for the seeds but certainly harder for us to rake over the top. And they were all different. All dry, shades of brown, black, sand and green, all containing huge potential, but all slightly different.

Some were short and stubby, some long and elegant, one – the yellow flag iris seed, was much larger than the rest. I could identify where it fell on the ground, and I tucked each one in with a silent wish of growth. Although some were less easy to tell apart, I felt the same about them all: watching where they fell onto the ground settled some primeval satisfaction inside of me.
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The ground was in no way smooth, it was as all ground should be: full of small lumps and hollows, and the seeds invariably would land in such a way that caught my attention. I would ensure that those that landed on top were securely raked over, and that those that landed in hollows were also covered. But it was the silent wishes, those thoughts of growth that really gave me heart. 

Sometimes a job is just a job, but sometimes it can lift our hope. This wee bit of seeding is habitat changing, I hope. In time, these black-brown banks will flourish with a rich variety of colour, but not only that. It’s not only our visual that’s important. The scabious will attract in six-spot burnets, the water avens will be perfect for small beetles, meadowsweet will send its delicious scent skyward, and the marsh thistle is perfect for the peacock butterfly. The yellow rattle will prevent the grasses from dominating, encouraging diversity, and the autumn hawkbit will provide food for pollinators further through the year. The beauty of these banks will be in their diversity, and in the diversity of life they provide space for.
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I thought of all this as the squalls of rain passed, and the wind whipped the seed out my hand in any which direction – it wasn’t strong, the seeds fell within a metre of me, but they were spun about until they landed on terra firma. I thought of the growth, of how this habitat would change, of field voles and otters, of frogs and palmate newts. Of stalking lizards and basking slow worms and I felt present and happy: it might be a small impact, but it’ll be mine.