So Much Depends . . .

upon
a wheelbarrow whether it's green, blue, red or old and rusty.

I'm embarrassed by how I came by the old rusty one and how long I have used it. The new one is part of a Christmas present, a very thoughtful and appreciated present. The old metal one can now retire gracefully and this new plastic-bodied one should serve me faithfully for the rest of my gardening days.

Both were glazed with rainwater this weekend and I doubt I'll be making much use of the new one for a few weeks. There is much tidying to be done though having lost most of December to the snow and frost. Some work done - note the empty compost bin behind the tree.

And if you want to know what's the story with the red wheelbarrow there's a reading here.
Of course there are some other wheelbarrow poems, not many and difficult to find, but here's one by Adrian Mitchell: Ten Ways to Avoid Lending Your Wheelbarrow to Anybody. It's poking some fun at another "difficult" American poem, Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird by Wallace Stevens.

Back to actual wheelbarrows. In Sligo in the fifties we had real wooden wheelbarrows. Yes that's me standing there, about 1954 I reckon, with an American cousin I think. The wheelbarrow belonged to my grandfather. We have come a long way in wheelbarrow ages.