I love my Bhudda. He’s in a little round bed close to the cherry tree in a secluded part of the garden. He protects the grave of Barney the swallow, who I found injured on the road some years ago, and who, sadly, we couldn’t save. A couple of weeks ago, walking back from the village I spotted a tiny clump of white violets growing right at the edge of the road. They were splashed with dirt from traffic. I have a special place in my heart for white violets, a memory of the farm when I was about five years old and the day my older sister showed me them, partially hidden, growing under the hedge. It was unusual and quite magical to find white as opposed to purple ones.
I went back with a trowel a few days later and rescued the violets from the roadside, and planted them in front of the chubby guy. They grew like mad, obviously loving the sudden disappearance of traffic noise and the daily splashings of grunge and grit. If you’d listened really hard you’d have heard them singing.
I should have taken a photo when they were blooming but somehow forgot, but they a do have a lovely little flourish of healthy, new green leaves. A picture of flowers next year!