Hydrangea Petals in November

Petals and leaves – the same process of fading into strange speckled intermediate stages. The garden is undergoing changes, as, tired of mowing the lawn, my husband has decided to let the grass grow He spent this freezing morning putting in miniature fruit trees. He has already scattered wild flower seed in the rich grass that grows this way and that, random but shapely like baby’s hair, looking much more beautiful than I expected. Gradually we will have a miniature orchard. His Christmas present will be a bottle of vintage port and some wildflower plugs. I fancy cowslips, that are so rare now; they should look lovely, set amongst the grass and fruit trees.

November Leaves

Quite a few Novembers have passed through my life – one of the first things I had published (in the school magazine) was a poem called November which I wrote, aged about 12 maybe, while sitting on the station platform waiting for the train home. But I can’t remember a November where I have been so fascinated by fallen leaves. I don’t really understand this. Is it because my eyes look downwards more, or is it the colours, because I am thinking of painting again? Maybe. These are, I think, leaves from some kind of a cherry, lying on the grass of a local park, Henderson Park, which is small, and full of personal memorials.

I like to scan leaves, and picked up a large handful, and because was busy threw some water on them and left them in an empty bird food bucket, in the cupboard of my workroom; and of course when I remembered them they were nowt but a soggy mess.

Perhaps it is this that so touches me, the transience of those beautiful colours.

I am trying to learn Italian, as I have told learning a new language is good for the mind, and find I am using a dried leaf as a bookmark.

Flashlight

This is not how the view from the window looked, but the distortion of light was intended. I like the ambiguity of the play of glass and reflections. It feels like November, late afternoon. Which is what it was.

The Pond in November II

There, on the left, is a lily bud, from plants lowered into the pond months ago. They have been living their life their under the water, and now, late in the year, one appears above the surface. The acer leaves bend towards the water, some are in the water, some are reflected. The garden is ablaze with the colours, but it won’t last long. However, when one acer is bereft of scarlet leaves, another burns orange yellow in the late sunlight.

The Pond in November

The little pond outside the conservatory (aka the lean-to) is pretty in the autumn, so I got out the camera again and tried to catch the colours. After uploading this image, I started writing about trying to undo frazzles in life, but just thought, no, let this be an image of a pond. All year we have been waiting for a lily to show its head, and then voila, after I had taken these pictures, there is a white bud unfolding, which I shall now need to photograph. Just like roses : “the last rose of summer” is still there in the wintertime.

Swan in Late November

 

Swan on River Tweed 1

 

River

Coldstream Bridge, November

 

First Snow 2