The Parable of the Mustard Seed

mustard

The Parable of the Mustard Seed

“The Kingdom of God is a mustard seed,
The leastest of all of the seeds of the earth,
From out which the greatest of herbs shall be freed,
With branches so stout for the birds to find berth.”

“But Master, are then not the seeds of the duckweed,
Or even the orchid, or poppy, or rue,
Yet ever more tiny, yet too they succeed ?
From dust on the breeze, so the wilderness grew.
Whyfore is mustard so sacred ?
If smallness is wanted, when all’s said and done,
Then surely the Kingdom of God should be second to none ?
To carpenters, all wood is worthy,
But farmers know not ev’ry stem is a beam,
And there’s more to croft than a prophet can dream.”

“Then look at the size of the mustard and poppy:
The former grows three times the height of the latter.
Within such a speck lies so giant a crop, see,
And we should remember that, next time we scatter.”

“But Master, if increase in size is so vital,
Then why not the mulberry, grapevine, or cane ?
There surely are worthier plants for the title,
For look at the growth of the poplar and plane !
Whyfore is mustard so sacred  ?
The not-tallest herb from the not-smallest seed.
And surely the Kingdom of God is a tree, not a weed ?
To fishermen, all land is constant,
But farmers know not ev’ry bud will bare fruit –
And there’s more to a plant than a leaf and a root.”

“But those other plants are not found in the garden
Their seeds are but sown by the wind, not the hand.
And mustard grows tall and its branches will harden,
So even the nests of the birds can it stand.”

“But Master, the mustard grows tall in late summer,
And then, as an annual, each winter it dies.
When nesters are building, this plant’s still a comer,
And still till the fledglings have long filled the skies.
Whyfore is mustard so sacred ?
For any birds perching must cause it to quake.
But surely the Kingdom of Heaven won’t tremble and break ?
To parables, all things are symbols
But farmers know not ev’ry shrub is a rose,
And there’s more to a seed than the fact that she grows.”

In terms of the ratio between the volume of the seed and the volume of the plant it fell from, Jesus would be hard-pressed to better the Coast Redwood: Wikipedia gives the seeds a size of 4mm x 1mm (including wings – about four times longer than a mustard seed), and let’s say they are 0.5mm deep. Let’s be generous and assume they are perfect rectangles, so each will have a volume of 2mm3, or 1/500 millionth of a cubic metre. The tallest known tree today is Hyperion at 115m, though the most massive is Grogan’s Fault with a main trunk volume of 1084m3 as at 2014, and that doesn’t include the branches or roots (though who knows how one calculates such a thing). Let’s call it a 1000m3 – we therefore have a size increase of 542 billion times the seed that grew it !

However, Grogan has nothing on Pando, a grove of Quaking Aspens that are infact all clones sharing a root system. Wikipedia gives its estimated weight at 6 million kilos, and according to Penn State University the average green wood weighs 714 kg/m3, so 6 million kilos of tree has a volume of 4,284,000 metres3. Unfortunately, I cannot find an indication online as to the size of the seeds, but the US Forestry Service states that there are “very light, 5,500 to 8,000 clean seeds per gram”. If we take the lower figure, then that single Aspen seed which spawned Pando has put on 33 trillion times its own mass.

However, give omniscient Jesus his due, he surely knew that redwoods would not thrive in arid Canaan, and this was likely why he didn’t bring them up. However, Canaan contains both Aspens (albeit Eurasian, not Quaking) and their cousins Poplars (White and Black), and the King James Version mentions
‘poplar’ twice – once in Genesis 30:37 (the famous ‘goats staring at streaky rods give birth to streaky kids’ experiment), and again in Hosea 4:13. Some translations also change ‘willow’ for the archeologically-correct ‘poplar’ in Psalm 137:2. But…the seeds are often accompanied by hairs making them appear much larger. What about a more down-to-Earth comparison ?

I can find no statistics on the average weights of garden plants, but TheSeedCollection.com (which sells them) states that there are around 360 Black Mustard seeds/gram, and Wikipedia says that a gram of Poppy seeds will get you 3300 seeds (there is no mention of Poppies in the KJV, but there is archeological evidence that the Philistines introduced them – indeed maybe they even formed part of Isaiah 40:6’s
‘flowers of the field’). Therefore, each Mustard seed weights the equivalent of 9 Poppy seeds, so even though a fully-grown Black Mustard plant is 2 metres tall (Britannica) and a full grown Poppy only 1 metre (Wikipedia) – it’s hard to imagine that the Mustard weighs nine times as much (remember, they have hollow stems). Though based on the image below, they look about a quarter of the volume so maybe the mustard seeds are more dense ? Incidentally, Wolffia is a type of duckweed, including the world’s smallest flowering plant, so no wonder their seeds are so teeny.

Weedfingers

weeds

Weedfingers

Is your backyard unkempt and scarred ?
Then call us to the scene !
Is your bare patch not up to scratch ?
We’ll turn your brown dirt green.
We’ve got the roots and seeds and shoots
And foliage to go.
We’ve got the blooms and shrubs and ’shrooms
To make your garden grow.
No need to dig to get ’em big,
No need to rake or delve.
With zero care, they’re ev’rywhere:
These plants just grow themselves !
We’ve dodder vines and thistle spines
And stickybuds galore –
To justify the docks nearby,
We’ve nettles by the score !
What’s cuddlier than buddleia,
And dandelion heads,
Or hairy sheathes of borage leaves
To feather-nest your beds ?
Our ivy cloaks, our bindweed chokes,
Our narcissus is black.
Forget-me-nots won’t be forgot,
They’ll keep on coming back.
So if your lawn is neat and shorn,
Too manicured and styled,
Then call the chums with seasick thumbs –
We’ll get it running wild !
If all that toil in clay-packed soil
Has left you lacking zest,
Then let us sow our vibrant show
Of nature at her best !

Unter den Linden

unter den linden

Unter den Linden

I was walking
Underneath the lindens,
Walking with my true love,
With Summer on the breeze.
We were walking
Walking in Berlin, then,
Walking two-by-two, love,
Underneath the trees.

I was walking
Underneath the lindens,
Walking with my true love,
Past the other fraus.
We were walking
In our finest linens
Walking two-by-two, love,
Underneath the boughs.

I was talking
Underneath the lindens,
Talking with my true love
About my life and times.
We were talking
Of how back in Swindon,
When walking two-by-two, love,
We’d be walking under limes.

The Hand Not Bitten

venus flytrap
Venus Fly Trap by Scott Bennett

The Hand Not Bitten

Is any insect brave enough
To pollinate the venus-flower,
Tempted never by the lure
Of nectar, rich upon the leaves ?
Is any insect sure enough
To find that small white-petalled tower
Standing tall above those mauls
That punish tardy, wayward thieves ?
Is any insect smart enough
To find the pollen in the bower,
And to fly away again
And not be caged within those sheathes ?

Purple in May

campanula & green alkanet
Campanula by apalca & Green Alkanet by Paul Kirtley

Purple in May

Throat-wort over here and five-tongue over there,
Clinging to the brickwork,
When other weeds won’t dare.
Any scrap of dirt will do,
Waiting till the bulbs are through –
And suddenly, they’re ev’rywhere,
Ready with their reddy-blue.

Butterflies this side, bumblebees the other,
Ferrying the love-notes,
Each bloom to its lover.
And then the scatter-seeds will blow,
And where they land, so there they grow,
As next Spring will uncover,
By sprouting mauve and indigo.

Throat-wort is an old name for campanula (aka bellflower, but I always think of bellflowers as larger and grander).  Five-tongue is a literal translation of Pentaglottis, the genus name of green alkanet.  The truth is, I needed two-syllable names for both of them.

Scorpion Grass

forget-me-nots

Scorpion Grass

You gave me seeds to scatter
In the ground beneath my plum –
A lover’s gift for growing,
And for shooing Winter glum.
Just sow them and forget them,
And with any-colour thumb,
And these blue and tiny flowers
Sprout a little straggly scrum –
Yet year-on-year, these self-seed parts
Make up a spreading sum –
These almost-weeds, not worth the dig,
Are no chrysanthemum !
You gave me some forget-me-nots –
And later called me scum.
I’ve tried so hard to wipe the slate –
Yet ev’ry Spring, they come.

This poem was inspired by one by Dino Mahoney – I basically took his idea and added rhymes.

Cherry-Picking

Photo by Taryn Elliott on Pexels.com

Cherry-Picking

Along Acacia Drive,
Through Elm Tree Road and Hollyside,
And into Laurel Lane and Willow Mews,
The civic cherries thrive –
An orchard only one-tree wide,
But threading through suburban avenues.

Before March has come,
I see the cherry plums are out,
Their branches full of flowers, keen to pop –
I never see the plums –
The pigeons scrump the lot, no doubt,
Before they even get the chance to drop.

And just as those ones fade,
The cherries-proper flush with pink,
A very English taste of oriental.
And yet, as they parade,
I’ve never seen them fruit, I think –
I guess that’s why they call them ornamental.

A burst of April snow,
Confetti for an Easter bride,
A blossoming before the leaves are built.
They really make a show –
They love to boast, all front and pride,
Pretending like they’re never gonna wilt…

Of course, ere April’s out,
They’re over for another year,
And all that’s left are unimpressive trees.
They are a Springtime shout,
Before the moans and tuts appear
To ask for dignified behaviour, please !

Which is a shame, I say,
For here beneath each semi’s eaves
They symbolise the middle-class at root –
For all their youthful play,
They settle down and spread their leaves
And sire such oddly neat and waxy fruit.

Blackfingers

shallow photography of dried leaves
Photo by Alan Cabello on Pexels.com

Blackfingers

The plant you gave so lovingly
Is dying on my windowsill.
I swear it’s not a metaphor,
It’s just a drooping hellebore.
I tend the plant so lovingly,
And steadily it goes downhill.
I swear its thrips and fungal pus
Are meaningless in terms of us.
This poor maltreated gift you chose,
This sacrificial Lenten rose,
Is no barometer of woes
That gnarls and twists and guilts.
It’s just a plant in dying throes
That cannot blame or presuppose.
The only thing this flower shows
Is soil that’s poor in silts.
I swear our love still blooms and grows,
As surely as this other wilts.
Whatever the bards or historians say,
It’s not the pot-plant of Dorian Gray.

Moveable Feast

cactus
Hatiora gaertneri by Peter Coxhead

Moveable Feast

My poor, befuddled Easter cactus –
Sometimes early, sometimes late,
But never can it bloom in practice
On the actual Easter date.
We set a day for April Fools,
We set a day to change our clocks
But Easter follows loony rules:
The first full-Moon from Equinox.

Early April’s worth a shout,
I reckon, for a stable day –
It’s warm enough for going out,
And far enough from busy May.
But all this shifty, ancient mess
With sense as empty as the tomb,
Is why my cactus cannot guess
The week in which to bloom.

Bashful Bulbs

white petaled flower
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Bashful Bulbs

Snowdrops, pale and shy and still,
As if they’re afraid to face the bracing breeze.
Downcast propellers, silent in the chill,
So loathe to disturb the hush beneath the trees.
Always huddled together in their crowds
With the neck of a swan and the wimple of a nun;
Tensed to bare the worst from the clouds,
And wilting away in the first warmth of the sun.