As the month and my time in the UK draws to an end, the summer is fading before my eyes. The daytime arrives noticably later and the night earlier, the berries on the bushes and trees swell and redden while the leaves, although not yet turning, no longer seem so lush and green.
There are exceptions: The amputated camellia that for so long has struggled to survive amongst the weeds, this summer has spread with glossy, plump leaves; the flowering currant, released from its pot, continues to put out joyful new growth and the small roots of geranium dug up and transplanted in the spring have flourished beyond recognition. The other young shrubs from the market have all established themselves, promising well for the future.
On the downside the snails are thriving in the wet weather, munching their way through the top leaves of the miniature laburnum (I think that’s what it is, anyway), stripping it down to bare stalks. I pluck them off the underside of the branches each morning but don’t quite have the heart to kill them. They just get deposited on the patio in the hope the birds find them. They’re probably the same ones I gather up the next day.
This plant (bush? tree?) has only started flowering recently, its first blossom opening the day one of our elderly cats died suddenly but apparently peacefully. This year has been filled with joyous new beginnings and sorrowful endings. And so the world turns.
To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, a time to reap that which is planted.
Book of Ecclesiastes, traditionally ascribed to King Solomon.
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