On days like this it's hard to believe it's autumn. It's still warm and nice to sit outside, basking in the sun and it feels like summer still. The temperature in my Victorian greenhouse gets high enough for the windows to open automatically. The fig inside the greenhouse is waving its green hands at me.
During summer I didn't see all that many butterflies but now there are so many of them fluttering about. They do so love the Verbena bonariensis and who can blame them as it is such a wonderful plant?.
Butterflies make you think of warm summer days, but spiders are the harbingers of autumn.
And spiders we have in vast quantities. It difficult to move about in the kitchen garden without disturbing at least a spiderweb or two. Sorry guys!
My sedums tell me it's autumn but the roses and phloxs whisper it's still summer.
Whom am I to believe? Is it summer or is it autumn now? The blue sky spells summer, my Amelanchier tells a different story.
And it's not the only one, because look what I found in my garden today; a big fat toadstool. Now where did that fairy go?
I know that the calender says autumn, but these last few summery, sunny days are precious, very precious in this part of the world. The days are getting shorter and shorter; soon it won't be light till around 9 in the morning and darkness will fall at half past 4 in the afternoon. Some days it will seem like the sun has gone awol as it really doesn't get light during the day at all. And many, many days in the months to come will be grey and wet and cold and dreary and gloomy. So I'm soaking up the sun while I still can, but I'm preparing for the dark and cold days ahead too.
Soon the only truly comfortable warmth will be provided by my wood stove. And I'll be waiting, waiting for the sun to get her strength up and get ready to kiss my garden back to life. Then another circle of life will begin.
copyright 2007: Y.E.W. Heuzen
The autumn always gets me badly, as it breaks into colours. I want to go south, where there is no autumn, where the cold doesn't crouch over one like a snow leopard waiting to pounce. The heart of the North is dead, and the fingers are corpse fingers.
D.H. Lawrence, letter to J.M. Murry, 3 Oct. 1924