Nothing will ever hurt you in the undergrowth at Grandma’s house. The spiders won’t sink fangs, the snakes will slither round past, and the birds will not swoop because grandma gently tends to the garden each day. Early in the morning she pulls frost covered weeds from all green corners, leaving only the most productive plants to thrive. And with her rough gloved hands she spreads fresh blood n bone along the rows of baby’s breath and pink and purple petunias till they’re fed. White roses and cherry tomato vines are trained to spread up the wire links to keep the outside world out. By lunchtime the barrow is full of glistening heads of all natural, all organic cos lettuce, shiny spinach, so that a mixture of vinegar, pepper and oil can be dripped on top. After the feast she brushes her woollen clothes off, and pulls back on her white hat and black gumboots, breaks branches, old bark from the centuries old ghost gums. Other snipped stems are dumped into the yellow bin to make way for new suckling saplings, ready to flower again. Finally when the Sun rests its head down on its orange misty bed, the old grey pine of the verandah creaks as grandma, gin or fine white in hand, quietly smiling surveys what she has made today.