Category: garden leaks

The lace lingerie of early autumn mists

morphs to winter winceyette heavy along

the river bed and tucked into bare hedgerows.

Soggy garden squelches along my progress

as the land claims me, draws me away from screens,

technology and comfort; instincts triumph.

Killing me softly in baby pinks and blues

the day bites into my bones, challenges me

with the kind of pain I would go lengths to avoid

as I snuggle deeper into old sheepskin

and huff white clouds over my shoulder.

Exotic butter-gold spread thickly over

tufted green, the discarded ginkgo garment

lies like a surreal shadow across my path

and up over the gentle incline that is

also river bank. I resist the temptation

to gather armfuls of riches, leave the real,

but take the memories with me, following

the watercourse home. And here I catch my breath

as the wealth confronts me. The rich butter-gold

of fatsia japonica’s fingers reach

out through the evergreen to beckon me in;

welcome me home with a carpet of gold; cloak,

bridge, to the incubator where I still grow.

Everything glistens, reflections shimmer

flicker and dance, water trickles and slides

dribbles under, over and around; fast,

slow, aimless and meandering; water

of life, pooling, gurgling, drowning, rotting;

life and death. Drop by drop descending, cold

at this time of year, superfluous to

hibernating plant life, seeking its way

down into layers of soil sucked dry by

generations of ancient laurel roots.

Filling the copper bowl, celebration

flagon on shiny-wet garden table,

this water of life is a birthday toast.

Frosted fatsia fingers fold modestly,

cloaking bare stems and the confetti of white

petals and pollen, a fallen skirt on cold

cobbled path. Intact bauble-blooms point skyward,

flaunt their fluffy outlines as mini spaceships,

decorations for the festive season. Treats

for tiny flying aliens not yet succumbed

to slumber.

I wake with the daylight, until

practicality dictates a

change of tactic and the battle

to serve the clock asserts its might.

Orientation with the day,

via a peep through my curtains,

offers the schizophrenia

of the indoor outdoor climates;

at five, or is that four, I wake

to the past season. At six, or

was that seven, adjusted clocks

declare breakfast claims attention.

In my bubble of artificial

light, surrounded by dark, senses

on full alert, I creep outside

to re connect with shadowy

shapes: to feel free, to taste fresh air.

These last few weeks I’ve struggled; slept

erratic sleep, dreamed chaotic

dreams; lived unease, anxiety

and lost my appetite. I try

to go with the predictable

flow, but reason speaks not to this

protesting body that watches

life, all life, undisturbed by the

artificial manipulation

of this pocket of time, making

it’s own response to the greater

challenge of unpredictable

climate change at full global scale.

Captivated by dawn, I watch

the sky melt rose gold; river-mist

blush exciting pink translucence;

chorus girls preening glossy red-

black feathers – cackling the morning

mantra at monosyllabic

ducks poised to erupt in mocking

laughter. Autumn forgetfulness

lets summer return with promise

of lingering heat, of sweet nights

under the strawberry silver

of super-moons, ripe and rolling

romantic heavens; finale

to late treasures of exquisite

light and the magical warming

of this last lingering embrace.

The damaged aeonium shows

every sign of taking root in

the new pot, the new space. And self

seeded stipa makes green tufts to

harvest for a new bed. I have

astrantia seed, and nigella.

The black lily-grass, bursting out

of its own space is ready to be

devided; house leaks trailing out

into the unknown, have copious

off-spring. And the feather-fern, a

Chelsea treasure, is also ready

for division. The vinca, Gertrude

Jykell, has delicately rooted

along its trail, there will be new plants

to nurture. I used to find all this

cyclical-stuff intimidating;

life too close to death, the reminder;

the toiling of the earth.

Like snow the agapanthus blossom

twirled to the ground, prompted by winds that

do not normally disturb the micro

climate of the south garden. The new

phormium has taken well, doubled in

size and capacity to filter the

wind seeking to invade the space, so I

can only hope that next time, next year,

it will be even more effective

against the tide of climate change and

disruption. Waving long copper-black straps

it points to my damaged aeonium,

and mimics my witch’s broom with promise

of magic not just confined to the

hex celebrations of midsummer.

The agapanthus will blossom again.

The low sun catches my eyelashes, unleashes

rainbow sparkles in over-lapping half orbs of

multi-coloured stripes that rest peacefully while I

focus on my ever sleepier garden, but

leap and flicker when I attempt to bring them,

from peripheral, to the subject of my gaze.

I rather like the idea of my own personal rainbows,

coloured lights for the undoubted fade that is autumn,

jewelled fringes to mellow golden treasures

swallowed up by the evergreen and skeleton

structures that prepare for the frosted limelight

while the gemstone colours are regaining their strength

underground.