A Garden for Pablo: rudbeckia

Showing posts with label rudbeckia. Show all posts

Showing posts with label rudbeckia. Show all posts

Monday, 25 September 2017

the perfect September

All the months are crude experiments out of which
the perfect September is made.
Virginia Woolf A Passionate Apprentice

September border

If August is 'a wicked month' (Edna O'Brien) then September is the 'morning after the night before month'. Borders are flushed with the tell-tale signs of over indulgence, leading inevitably to feeling a bit seedy!

Rudbeckias and Japanese anemones

The glorious perennials are, like many of us, past their best but determined to have a final flowery fling before accepting that the autumn of their days will unrelentingly make way for a steady decline into the somnambulism of winter.

cosmos purissima

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Garden Lore

Who will take care of this garden, who will nurture it?

I will, said January.

I will anchor it to the earth with snowdrops.

I will give it my stone, the garnet.

It is mine, said February.

I will feed it the memory of all that grows.

I will welcome it with amethyst and primrose.

I will coax it with bloodstone and daffodil, said March.

Like a boxer battered by winter

I will lift myself from the frosty canvas of the earth to welcome it.

With diamond and daisy I will seduce it.

I will soak it in shower after shower, said April.

In the yawny earth its seeds will riot.

I will make it dizzy with emeralds

And the fumes of the hawthorn, said May.

It will know of nothing but play.

And I will adorn it with a necklace

Of honeysuckle and ruby, said June.

It will dance to my languid tune.

I will contain it, said July.

I will handcuff it with briar and chrysolite,

Drug it with the scent of roses.

August spoke from the garden’s stillness.

I will weep layer upon layer of sardonyx.

I will teach it the brevity of poppies.

When its bones begin to creak

I will cure it with aster and opal,

promised September.

I will guide it towards sleep with the cold light of sapphires;

For its lullaby I will provide the swan song of dahlias,

said October.

Under the weight of dead chrysanthemums I will bury it,

said November. I will give it a headstone of topaz,

a rosary of berries.

And I will guard its sleep, said December.

On a pillow of moonstone

It will dream of holly and the coming snowdrop.

Brian Patten