The Whitest Flower

No bread without sweat,

No soil without toil,

No love without longing.

And together they sweated and toiled to make this soil their own.

‘Will we get the dozen beds out of it, Martin?’ Michael asked when it was almost cleared, except for three or four of the largest boulders.

The older man straightened up, pushing the cap back off his forehead and, in the same movement, wiping the soologues of sweat that had gathered there. He squinted and pondered, and squinted again at the perimeters of the Hare’s Garden before he answered: ‘Faith, Michael, we’ll be doing well if we get the half-score out of it – maybe the one or two extra rows for luck. But I don’t think she’ll take the dozen, though I could be wrong, mind.’

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