By scent and by sight the arboretum is at that place to which it aspires when it dreams, shivers, or blows a clutch of roasted summer seedpods across the path the rest of the year.
There is a golden smoke of pollen blowing through the maze and hedges, a blue-brown haze of fennel drifting behind the tiny trefoil pansies and fiddleheads rising like caterpillars in stray open spots. I could smell honey and rosemary and whatever sweet japonicum is blooming now. These bees were so dazed, some of the crawled along the paths.
Dewberries and raspberries are just beginning to set and I'm dreaming of a thousand stories growing from the thinnest stalks just breaking the mould by the edge of the water.
I almost notice the squirrel in a waistcoat running off to seed more of them, but I am too drifting with the waterlilies in the shade and miss him.
No comments:
Post a Comment