The Kiss of the Sun

 

The kiss of the Sun for pardon
The song of the birds for mirth
One is nearer God's Heart in a garden
Than anywhere else on Earth.
Dorothy Frances Gurney

 

My Gardens are invariably feral things.
To call them "mine" is sheer arrogance - a convenience of sorts - it's easier to say than "the gardens that have chosen to share their untamed beauty with me".

Here you will find no tidy borders enclosing pretty annuals, no close-mown lawn with which to wake the neighbours on a Sunday morn, no bushes pruned to conform to some perfectionists view of how well-shaped they ought to be.

Here the vines tangle & twist their way through the trees. With one breath we curse the Jasmine as she overpowers the fences and oozes her way under the eaves; with the next we delight in her wonderous aroma, hanging on the night air in Spring.

Here the grasses mingle with the dandelions and violets slowly spread their tendrils underground, constantly surprising us as they emerge at the base of yet another tree.

Here the Cats live out their jungle fantasies, revelling in the Teucrium, lazing under the Lavender, sitting tall in the trees & surveying their territory from on high.

Here are some of my Gardens - Sanctuaries all.

The Digging Patch
The Secret Garden
The Hot Bed
The Rest