Gardening is good for my soul. Digging and laying paths are good for my body, at least so I try to convince myself as I nurse my aching ageing muscles. Watering, as long as the garden is small, is mesmeric and good for my seeing. This end of season light is low and soft as are the geranium flowers. Towards the end of the hot day the flower heads are as open as the beaks of young birds waiting to be fed. The stems stiffen as I water with the fine mist leaving heavy tear drops on the sated lips of the gorged blooms.