roots in a strange new earth

The earth in the Maghreb is like a very fine sand: a pale, orange brown in colour. Its fineness means water doesn’t flow through it easily. There must be feeding in it: so much grows here: lemons, limes, melons, all kinds of herbs.

In the garden are heaps of earth, brought up by the big ants from beneath the ground, the spoil from their tunnels. I filled the pot from these little hills, on top of a layer of stones, soaked it well. The roots on the cutting had grown to a system the size of a mouse’s head. I carved out a hole in the pot’s earth, gently placed the cutting there, filled the earth around the roots. More water, from the bottle it had been growing in.

Then I washed the leaves by filling my mouth with more fresh water and spraying them, like an aborigine leaving his ancient hand outline shadowed in pigment on a cave wall. The leaves, two grown, two half grown, two tiny ones, looked beautifully green.