Cutting back hard

It's been months since I've felt able to get out in the garden and tidy up the beds.  I've told myself I'm leaving the debris for the benefit of wildlife but as winter begins to warm and new shoots are pushing through the leaf litter I know it will soon be time to venture out again.  Whenever I get my secateurs out to cut back the shrubs in our garden I can hear my Dad telling me they will thank me for pruning them hard. 

At winter's end he'd 'do the roses'

Pace out to where they sheltered behind the garden wall,

Look hard at each of Mum's prized rose bushes

Eyeing up where crossed limbs crowded the centre,

Where last year's growth veered away from view.

His shears would snip and prune, lop and sever, 

Removing the weak, opening up the space for air,

Till each crown rose no more than six inches from the ground. 

He'd stand back and squint, clip once, twice, pronounce it done; 

Six spiky clusters where once a hedge had been.

We always mourned the pruning of the roses,

Dismayed at how hard he'd cut them back,

Sure he'd gone too far this year. 

Whenever we heard the call of the rag-and-bone man,

The clip of hooves as his horse strained up the hill,

Dad would be the first man out the door with his shovel.

Rich steaming manure would be added round the crowns,

As he turned it into the earth, cursing and praising the thick London clay,

Pronouncing it the best soil for roses.

In summer the bushes grew fragrant, hanging heavy with blooms. 

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