Poetry

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.

Some years ago in moments of

je ne sais quoi, I planted three box

plants. I had a while believing that

every garden needs a folly, not

in this case a building, but birds; pecking

birds, close to the ground. Then I changed my mind;

more than once – so the now amorphous lump

really is a folly of indecision.

It gets left out of those summer clippings that

keep my cloud stroke bubble pruned hedge tidy.

It waits for winter just as I wait for

inspiration; more cloud? Geometric?

Corkscrews or a child-size garden chair?

Or maybe those birds were a good idea;

when winter comes, this year, yes this year

I will do something creative with my shears.

At the bottom of my garden,

a neighbour rose scrambles over

an old wall into the sunshine

space, waves long fronds out over

painted archways that offer a

permanent illusion, a trompe

l’oeil journey into somewhere that

lives in my imagination.

Plausible in summer, spring and

even autumn, a comforting

fantasy in frosts and chilly

winters, this escape from the real

beckons under the faded pink

of this last rose waving greeting

or maybe a final goodbye.

I’m still basking in high summer.  The cosmos

producing late buds, are still just beginning.

We share reluctance to let go, to move on;

but mornings are minutes later and evenings

are dark enough for candlelight. I focus

on midday moments, on summer dreams and on

breathing in the energy of feeding plants:

bulbs stocking up for next years exhibition,

stellata fattening sweet silvery buds,

and the Japanese anemone peeping

bright white eyes between the glossy green

of fatsia fingers. Focus on hoarding the

memories, the mellow delights, for the long

hibernation that will inevitably

follow the summer fattening of my soul.

The thin ribbon of mist that trickles

it’s way down the river valley at

this time of year, this morning flash-floods

and, on waking, only the very tops

of the trees are visible above the

pale swirl. Dissipating to reveal a

rosy horizon, it leaves behind

the chill of autumn, challenging my

denial of summer’s hesitant withdrawal

by drawing finest grey-white beaded

outlines to the exquisite new alchemila

leaves emerging after the ritual

of a July decapitation.

The Japanese acers have not had their best season

Skeeters Broom has put on weight, but the rest, to a brush,

have shown their dismay at the taciturn

vagaries of this years weather. The hot translucence

of scarlet that was Skeeters greeting to spring, now

replaced by a hesitant red-green fading to

purple grey. The indecisive reticence of the

sun suddenly transformed without warning, to fry

the fragile fingers of Sango-kaku into curled

claws of pale orange-brown. My memories of

Kyoto colours have failed to ignite as my own

small woodland hunkers down in dusty varieties

of vaguely green while we all try to stave off

any hint of the season of mellow fruitfulness.

Evening candles pool flickering warmth

over the deep bronze-black of phormium,

black lily grass and aeonium.

A late stand of acanthus, five elder

gentlemen, make short, upright blossom

with sparse flashes of white acknowledged

by the low-bowing agapanthus blooms

still vying with the candlelight in

mellow dusk. The ravaged hosta spurts

perfectly miniature grey-green leaves

now late sun has driven slug-life

deeper underground while geraniums trail

bright white stars through this heaven

of ease and contentment, of unhurried

peace.

Lucifer sears it’s way through the green formality

dips it’s flaming fronds to ignite the last of the bronze

hemerocallis, nods to the waving purple of

verbena bonariensis and the deeper tones

of clematis scrambling wild and irreverent through

golden euonymus neatness and the gnarled contrast

of an ancient rosemary. Sedums, still pale ice-green

cluster around the Japanese anemone

awaiting inspiration from its bright pop of pink.

Green makes valiant attempt to dominate the space

with spikes and swords of kniphofia, crocosmia

and gladiolus byzantinus, giant ears of

bergenia and the green fingers of peony.

Under cover of all this hyper activity

stubs of sturdy greenness push their way up into daylight

Surely premature, these are muscari, heralds

of next year’s spring, too soon and yet so reassuring.