The allotment

Pushing aside the weeds one could just make out the path as it went down towards the shed. The raised beds and the shade house were over run by nature, as it recaptured the years of hard labour that had been expended to create this small patch of garden, a reminder that what ever our efforts we are in the hands of a much bigger force.
Weeds need no mulch, no pruning, no watering they grow to another tune, another rhythm which is beyond the ken of man. Nature has through natural selection toughened all its species and the thistle, the dandelion, the nettle are perfect examples of how the hybrid flower or the vegetable can't compete and are soon overtaken the moment the human hand is removed from the hoe.
Its non the less sad to see the chaos which is revealed to the person who has spent so many hours tirelessly and creatively making a viable food producing garden. So much effort so much pride so much love, now in ruins.
The other factor is the human factor. The people in adjacent allotments who have become friends who speak  the specialised language of the allotment keeper, a brand of people with their feet firmly on the ground (probably in a pair of wellies) who's vision of life is more fundamental  and not in the least consumerist in the way we understand the term. The conversation between the gardeners are as much a part of the  experience and its not an exaggeration to say that the "time of day" can be expressed in hours rather than minutes taken over the week.
And so the allotment gate is closed for someone, for someone else to open and take the fight to 'mother nature'. Their energy and spirit will be tested but the pleasure they obtain in doing something so elemental is enough and remains a testimony to mankind's strength and the ability to survive what ever is thrown against it.