Well oiled
I can almost smell the linseed;
I can almost feel it-
The weight of rounded well- worn wood
Moulded to my hand…
The grip of her hand-
Her hand in mine.
The stories it carries,
One generation to another,
Or do I say carried?
I look and look
Deeper in the ground I go;
We come from the ground-
we return to the ground;
It’s there somewhere
Just out of sight,
Just as she is
It’s lost so I’m lost
Without it.
Two weeks I’ve searched for this little fork. All my tools hang well- oiled.I always put them back or put them in the greenhouse, but perhaps that day I did one more job. This fork is special as it is one of a collection of my mother’s tools.
I gardened that day at my friend’s, counted my tools back into the car as I finished, just as I always do each week. I took the trug of tools back to the greenhouse. I was out early the next morning planting out sweet peas and used the trowel . I thought the fork was beside it – when I went for the fork, it was not there . And so two weeks of searching the border, all of which had been recently mulched . Alas it’s not turned up.I can’t blame anyone – it’s so frustrating!
Ruth Partridge 
Some years ago I lost a very favourite tool, smaller than yours. I searched and searched but to no avail. Months later when sieving compost there it was, still in good condition. Don’t give up hope….
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Thank you Wendy . We’ve looked through compost sacks . I’ve driven my fork through the main compost heap . It’s driving me nuts. I won’t give up hope . So far in thirty years here the garden has gained some Felco secateurs and garden butterfly scissors !
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