The last day of true summer has begun and the sun is already high in the sky. It will be an Indian Summer for us, where the lines blur between the warm and the cool, no cold snap but an almost imperceptible shift. It makes it easier that way for those that do not pine for the cooler months the way I do each year. I am learning not to be so impatient.
Living in a place with four distinct seasons has made me more conscious of them, focusing on what is in abundance and savouring it (this will be the year I fell in love with plums), soaking up the sunlight to return to as a memory of warmth on the cold days of midwinter. Most of all it is the flowers that have guided me through this season, from the blowsy peony to the sweetly scented garden rose and my beloved dahlia, in every form and colour. I write these down in little notebooks, dreams and plans for a garden yet to be found.
Of course there would also need to be a tumbling hydrangea bush (or three) for the summer garden to be complete. The dried flower above came about by complete accident and a small amount of neglect on my part. It began as a beautiful deep purple, plucked from a potted plant and sat in a jar of water at my bedside. There it stayed long after the water was gone, slowly changing, fading, turning brittle yet remaining just as lovely. A piece of my summer, kept.