The garden is closed now, and I have begun the time-consuming job of preparing it for winter. But for now I’m just relaxing out here, taking in the plays of light and shadow. Bryn-dog is with me, sleeping on the grass. The big swan fountain has been left on: it’s falling water blocks out city noise and allows for contemplation, especially at certain hours, when, for example, sunbeams in late afternoon penetrate deep shadows that have gradually crept over the lawn and flowerbeds.
The emerald green and blue hummingbirds, who sip nectar from the mandevilla vine’s trumpet-shaped red flowers, appear unaware that I’m right there, stunned by their grace, lulled by the low whirr of their invisible wings. They live in a separate universe: mine must seem glacially slow.
A male cardinal bathes in the Ram’s Head Fountain, that perfect body flashing autumn fire as wet feathers catch the last rays of afternoon sun.
A robin spreads her damp wings, closes her eyes and appears to sleep as she perches on the main fountain’s edge, completely vulnerable to hawks, but so contented she has temporarily misplaced her vigilance. I find myself tearful, watching her indulge in those few moments of pure pleasure.
I’m intoxicated by the feel of the warm earth, crumbling and worm-full under my probing hands. A chipmunk dashes by, cheeks bulging, on important business. Bryn, sound asleep, doesn’t notice. Her paws twitch.
Light breezes play with the reddish gold, arching blades of the giant Miscanthus flame grasses, whose elegant, waving cream plumes wave in the gentle breeze. Nearby, the much smaller Imperata grass’s bright red color compliments its six-foot high relative.
I love fountain music. Each of the four has a distinctive sound. One, shaped like a medieval window, is nestled deep in the Brick Walled Garden. Its stream of water tumbles from three notches in a high, small bowl down to the floor of its larger bowl: falling water faintly echoes in this smaller space.
I lie on the grass near the huge, artfully lined chartreuse leaves of my giant ‘Sum and Substance’ hosta, and listen to conversational chipmunks, the distant laughter of children, a screen door slamming- sounds that transport me back to childhood.
I tread barefoot on the thick, cool grass under the maple tree. It’s still slightly damp from the morning watering. When I was a child this pleasure was a daily ritual on our small front lawn.
I place the palms of my hands on the textured, delicate surface of springy Irish moss growing under the bench; it’s lush enough to billow.
A large, oval mirror nestled in a tangle of lush English ivy reflects my surroundings in a fresh way. I notice an abandoned nest woven into the vines just above it. Next spring this area will host many new families.
Louisa’s life-sized, serenely beautiful 18th century face gazes at visitors; I remember her former home in an abandoned English garden, and now in mine, which is still full of color and life. I often wonder what’s behind that secret smile as I settle next to my dog, savoring September’s last lovely days.
Winter is in the wings...
The emerald green and blue hummingbirds, who sip nectar from the mandevilla vine’s trumpet-shaped red flowers, appear unaware that I’m right there, stunned by their grace, lulled by the low whirr of their invisible wings. They live in a separate universe: mine must seem glacially slow.
A male cardinal bathes in the Ram’s Head Fountain, that perfect body flashing autumn fire as wet feathers catch the last rays of afternoon sun.
A robin spreads her damp wings, closes her eyes and appears to sleep as she perches on the main fountain’s edge, completely vulnerable to hawks, but so contented she has temporarily misplaced her vigilance. I find myself tearful, watching her indulge in those few moments of pure pleasure.
I’m intoxicated by the feel of the warm earth, crumbling and worm-full under my probing hands. A chipmunk dashes by, cheeks bulging, on important business. Bryn, sound asleep, doesn’t notice. Her paws twitch.
Light breezes play with the reddish gold, arching blades of the giant Miscanthus flame grasses, whose elegant, waving cream plumes wave in the gentle breeze. Nearby, the much smaller Imperata grass’s bright red color compliments its six-foot high relative.
I love fountain music. Each of the four has a distinctive sound. One, shaped like a medieval window, is nestled deep in the Brick Walled Garden. Its stream of water tumbles from three notches in a high, small bowl down to the floor of its larger bowl: falling water faintly echoes in this smaller space.
I lie on the grass near the huge, artfully lined chartreuse leaves of my giant ‘Sum and Substance’ hosta, and listen to conversational chipmunks, the distant laughter of children, a screen door slamming- sounds that transport me back to childhood.
I tread barefoot on the thick, cool grass under the maple tree. It’s still slightly damp from the morning watering. When I was a child this pleasure was a daily ritual on our small front lawn.
I place the palms of my hands on the textured, delicate surface of springy Irish moss growing under the bench; it’s lush enough to billow.
A large, oval mirror nestled in a tangle of lush English ivy reflects my surroundings in a fresh way. I notice an abandoned nest woven into the vines just above it. Next spring this area will host many new families.
Louisa’s life-sized, serenely beautiful 18th century face gazes at visitors; I remember her former home in an abandoned English garden, and now in mine, which is still full of color and life. I often wonder what’s behind that secret smile as I settle next to my dog, savoring September’s last lovely days.
Winter is in the wings...