Seriously Fall
No doubting our senses now. This is Fall ascendant. Not yet the kind of weather that has us putting on the fireplace to dispel the cool damp in the house. Because this is a kindly Fall, one that has gifted us with a goodly amount of sunshine - in between the odd gloomily wet day.
And when the sun shines uninterruptedly, brightly, the large windows in this house take full advantage as sunshine sweeps through the rooms of our home and warms our inner environment.
Our garden clean-up has commenced apace. Slowly but surely the perennials have been cut back. Wire cages have been pulled out of the ground, surrounding and supporting roses, delphiniums, baby's breath, Canterbury bells, mallow, peonies, Jacob's ladder, and many more.
And all those garden stakes employed throughout the garden to ensure that proud flowers on tall stalks don't hit the dirt, like carnations and dahlias, have also been pulled out of the weary earth, assembled in tall pails by the dozens.
Sword-shaped lily and iris leaves have been cut back to neat vees, and the newly-limp leaves of our innumerable hostas have been sheared. Roses have been cut back and mounded, not yet ready to place those protective cones on them to shield them from winter's excesses.
Today I transplanted the wonderfully productive passion vine into a more permanent home, ready to give it shelter in our basement over-winter. Loathe to treat that wonderful pink trumpet flower-bearer as an expendable exotic.
The still-blooming annuals have all been plucked from out of our varied and many garden pots. Long experience has taught that one does not wait until permanent frost wreaks its fury on such defenceless blooms.
Most of the soil has been emptied out of the pots and the classical urns into the new garden, newly-dug under one of our blue spruces. And into that garden has gone the division of hostas and heucheras, bulbs of tulip and narcissi.
When we walk now in the ravine the landscape is changed completely. The canopy is now almost bare of leaves but for a handful still hanging in there, defiant to the end. Like those of the oak, the beech, the hornbeam.
On some pathways the newly fallen leaves still retain their brilliant colours; red, orange, yellow. Elsewhere the colour has receded to a monochromatic yellow, on its way to muddy grey, crunching underfoot.
The sweet-sour fragrance of the poplars, the biting acrid odour of the decomposing leaves envelop us in the languid memory of so many years gone by at this most thoughtfully evocative of seasons.
Were it not for his little green sweater protecting him from the coolness of the atmosphere, Riley would seem to dissolve entirely into the yellow-leafed trails, with the apricot of his haircoat reflecting their fading glory.
The songbirds are gone now. Still, pileated and hairy woodpeckers, nuthatches and chickdadees remind us of their steadfast presence.
And when the sun shines uninterruptedly, brightly, the large windows in this house take full advantage as sunshine sweeps through the rooms of our home and warms our inner environment.
Our garden clean-up has commenced apace. Slowly but surely the perennials have been cut back. Wire cages have been pulled out of the ground, surrounding and supporting roses, delphiniums, baby's breath, Canterbury bells, mallow, peonies, Jacob's ladder, and many more.
And all those garden stakes employed throughout the garden to ensure that proud flowers on tall stalks don't hit the dirt, like carnations and dahlias, have also been pulled out of the weary earth, assembled in tall pails by the dozens.
Sword-shaped lily and iris leaves have been cut back to neat vees, and the newly-limp leaves of our innumerable hostas have been sheared. Roses have been cut back and mounded, not yet ready to place those protective cones on them to shield them from winter's excesses.
Today I transplanted the wonderfully productive passion vine into a more permanent home, ready to give it shelter in our basement over-winter. Loathe to treat that wonderful pink trumpet flower-bearer as an expendable exotic.
The still-blooming annuals have all been plucked from out of our varied and many garden pots. Long experience has taught that one does not wait until permanent frost wreaks its fury on such defenceless blooms.
Most of the soil has been emptied out of the pots and the classical urns into the new garden, newly-dug under one of our blue spruces. And into that garden has gone the division of hostas and heucheras, bulbs of tulip and narcissi.
When we walk now in the ravine the landscape is changed completely. The canopy is now almost bare of leaves but for a handful still hanging in there, defiant to the end. Like those of the oak, the beech, the hornbeam.
On some pathways the newly fallen leaves still retain their brilliant colours; red, orange, yellow. Elsewhere the colour has receded to a monochromatic yellow, on its way to muddy grey, crunching underfoot.
The sweet-sour fragrance of the poplars, the biting acrid odour of the decomposing leaves envelop us in the languid memory of so many years gone by at this most thoughtfully evocative of seasons.
Were it not for his little green sweater protecting him from the coolness of the atmosphere, Riley would seem to dissolve entirely into the yellow-leafed trails, with the apricot of his haircoat reflecting their fading glory.
The songbirds are gone now. Still, pileated and hairy woodpeckers, nuthatches and chickdadees remind us of their steadfast presence.
Labels: Perambulations
posted by Pieface @ 5:25 PM
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