In the gloom of dark November, the wind steps up and slaps the leaves from the trees. A first hard round of frost whips around the geraniums and begonias left carelessly outside, rupturing cell walls, scattering flowers. The plants withdraw water and drop down their leaves like the ears of a panicked cat. Petals brown in sudden shock on the deciduous lingerers (Forsythia, Roses) and the year-round chancers (Abutilon, Marigold). The winter jasmine opens its starry eyes in earnest; the pansies raise their bright ceramic faces to the sky. To be a flower in November takes a certain vigour, a grit, a minimalist fierceness.
And then you come across a winter cherry, already in opulent bloom; a garden so full of blowsy Michaelmas daisies that they're been tied up with string so the bikes can squeeze past; an unexpected mass of marigold, fuchsia, roses, nodding unconcernedly from a sheltered spot.
And it's not just the garden flowers. Down on the tow path, every day, I'm walking past a White Campion in bright, defiant bloom. Up on the allotment, my winter crops are sprouting, despite being planted weeks behind schedule.
The twigs are already showing red, as if spring is stretching back across winter to take autumn's hand, gently, inevitably, terrifyingly.
And then you come across a winter cherry, already in opulent bloom; a garden so full of blowsy Michaelmas daisies that they're been tied up with string so the bikes can squeeze past; an unexpected mass of marigold, fuchsia, roses, nodding unconcernedly from a sheltered spot.
And it's not just the garden flowers. Down on the tow path, every day, I'm walking past a White Campion in bright, defiant bloom. Up on the allotment, my winter crops are sprouting, despite being planted weeks behind schedule.
The twigs are already showing red, as if spring is stretching back across winter to take autumn's hand, gently, inevitably, terrifyingly.
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