Ragtime

Last year I was pulling ragwort on the farm in the places where diggers had disturbed the ground and created a lovely new seedbed. This year, only a couple of plants re-emerged, so the yanking up by the roots, removing and burning process seems to have worked. And there is not a trace of the stuff anywhere near the hayfields which is good news.
But the wood is a different matter. A year ago there were just a few plants but as it is closed off to livestock, I didn't think it too important to deal with them, after all, if there was a problem there would be a sea of yellow, not just a sprinkling. Humph. I have just heaved the fifth heavily crammed sackful back to the bonfire. It's the usual story; look after the pennies (or the individual plants) and the pounds (the heavy sack) will look after itself. Lesson learned.
Trouble is, although I always mean to take an old carrier bag or similar on all my walks across the farm to pick up any rogue plastic, litter, baler twine or other foreign body, I remember, say, once in every twenty walks, and I often return home with a length of wet, muddy twine in my now begrimed pocket. But you can't pull ragwort safely without gloves, and it won't fit in my pocket, so it requires a special trip loaded with refuse sacks, gloves and a keen eye.
There may be one or two plants left, but I will be bold, fearless and focussed, and get rid of the deadly weed before they go to seed. And perhaps I should hum this for good measure.