Death of a NaturalistApproached by nature bearing something I greet with repulsed fascination I am always put in mind of Seamus Heaneys Death of a Naturalist. I seem to recall clumsy essays about adult awakening and a passage from innocence. Mostly what I recall though is that the poem perfectly captured the idle introspection and sunny back fields of a County Down adolescence silently buzzing with midges. And poking something pretty with a stick. Then finding something repugnant under it. So much so I could barely contain myself from bursting upright in class and blurting excitedly I Know What He Means Mrs O'Toole! From jampots full of jellied specks to slime kings blunt heads farting.
Some red onions bolted in my cupboard which is a great gardeners word altogther. I can barely contain myself from typing 'some red onions bolted from my cupboard' Something of an optimist I plant them outside to see what might happen next. And they grew. And they grew. And they grow. And every day I observe thick green shafts which have erected another two inches in the night. A head appears, I think to flower. But this morning I peered closer and recoiled with glee at a fat pod of seeds, a shiny taut sack ready to explode.