Nine o’clock. I sit in my garden, sipping a cup of tea (so English!) and savouring the results of the past weekend’s gardening achievements. The bushes and shrubs we have shaped and trimmed wave softly in the breeze. The sun shines through them, making delightful patterns of sun and shade on the freshly swept stones of the patio. A soft breeze moves through the branches of the lilac, setting up a gentle motion across the garden, not restless but a calming influence, a restful movement, beckoning me on to contemplation and enjoyment of this moment before work begins.
Fronds of honeysuckle break free from the archway where we have tried to entwine them, defying our attempts at neatness. A blackbird flies low across the garden, settles in the bird bath and flutters in the shallow water, preening itself and splashing until, satisfied with its ablutions, it flies up into the lilac tree and perches there, shaking the glistening drops of water from its wings. A painted lady drifts across the foliage and busy bees dart here and there, their work already begun.
Fronds of honeysuckle break free from the archway where we have tried to entwine them, defying our attempts at neatness. A blackbird flies low across the garden, settles in the bird bath and flutters in the shallow water, preening itself and splashing until, satisfied with its ablutions, it flies up into the lilac tree and perches there, shaking the glistening drops of water from its wings. A painted lady drifts across the foliage and busy bees dart here and there, their work already begun.
Soft pink petals quiver and fall to the ground as the gentle breeze moves softly through them. I watch the star-shaped patterns of the oleander leaves, dark on white, against the sunlit, painted wooden shed, subtly rearranging themselves as the wind ripples the leaves. The jasmine shifts in the breeze and releases a waft of its heady perfume. And I realise that this movement: sometimes fierce, sometimes gentle like today, is an integral part of the garden, scattering showers of leaves and petals, spoiling the tidying we have done, but a part of the garden’s glory. It’s alive.
All my life I’ve had a love affair with colour. The rich red and soft pink of the roses; the bright spurs of purple lavender, standing up straight and reaching for the warm sunshine; the bright pinks and oranges of the nemesias and the creamy white of the pyracanthus blossom. As the wind blows, the hydrangea scatters clouds of yellow pollen everywhere. All these things have delighted me. After the grey Dutch winter, the world comes alive for me when the sun shines, the temperature rises and the landscape is suddenly drenched with colour.
But today it is the movement that touches me. The stirrings of the leaves in response to this gentle wind, which one is rarely without in this land of wind. Even here, in my sheltered garden, the wind creeps in, over the wall, over the fences, through the gaps in the foliage and it creates this green well of life – not static or stagnant, but alive, acting and reacting, changing, impressing itself on me, catching my attention.
I get up and wander slowly through the garden, stopping to admire the beauty. I run my fingers through the leaves of the thyme, sage and rosemary, so that each releases its own special aroma, and turn to identify the source of the sudden blasts of perfume from honeysuckle and jasmine. I reach up and bury my nose in roses climbing high on the pergola, inhaling their gorgeous scent, and I gaze up into the clear blue sky.
In the background, I hear other noises. A neighbour is vacuuming, with the back door open to enjoy this lovely morning. A murmuring of voices in the distance seeps into my consciousness and a school party, maybe on a trip out, herded along the pavement by watchful teachers; then sounds of traffic from afar. They disturb me, these sounds, here in my peaceful garden, but they remind me that the rest of the world is alive too. Without them I would be alone. Their noises mingle with the garden sounds – the cheeping of baby birds from next door’s fir tree, the buzzing of insects, the rustle of leaves. The world is alive in so many, many ways and I am here, with all my senses, to taste and enjoy it.
*title inspired by a visit to the ‘Jardin des Cinq Sens’ in Yvoire, France.
All my life I’ve had a love affair with colour. The rich red and soft pink of the roses; the bright spurs of purple lavender, standing up straight and reaching for the warm sunshine; the bright pinks and oranges of the nemesias and the creamy white of the pyracanthus blossom. As the wind blows, the hydrangea scatters clouds of yellow pollen everywhere. All these things have delighted me. After the grey Dutch winter, the world comes alive for me when the sun shines, the temperature rises and the landscape is suddenly drenched with colour.
But today it is the movement that touches me. The stirrings of the leaves in response to this gentle wind, which one is rarely without in this land of wind. Even here, in my sheltered garden, the wind creeps in, over the wall, over the fences, through the gaps in the foliage and it creates this green well of life – not static or stagnant, but alive, acting and reacting, changing, impressing itself on me, catching my attention.
I get up and wander slowly through the garden, stopping to admire the beauty. I run my fingers through the leaves of the thyme, sage and rosemary, so that each releases its own special aroma, and turn to identify the source of the sudden blasts of perfume from honeysuckle and jasmine. I reach up and bury my nose in roses climbing high on the pergola, inhaling their gorgeous scent, and I gaze up into the clear blue sky.
In the background, I hear other noises. A neighbour is vacuuming, with the back door open to enjoy this lovely morning. A murmuring of voices in the distance seeps into my consciousness and a school party, maybe on a trip out, herded along the pavement by watchful teachers; then sounds of traffic from afar. They disturb me, these sounds, here in my peaceful garden, but they remind me that the rest of the world is alive too. Without them I would be alone. Their noises mingle with the garden sounds – the cheeping of baby birds from next door’s fir tree, the buzzing of insects, the rustle of leaves. The world is alive in so many, many ways and I am here, with all my senses, to taste and enjoy it.
*title inspired by a visit to the ‘Jardin des Cinq Sens’ in Yvoire, France.
No comments:
Post a Comment