The melancholy garden drips spent rain
from brittle seed heads clustered on bent stalks.
Ripe rose hips and unseasonal blooms
enliven damp stone walls.
We walk on Persian rugs of gold, red, umber,
while gaunt trees stretch knotted fingers
skyward as we slip and slide below
on paved paths slimy from old rain.
A fir appears, majestic on a lawn.
Its branches, sweeping downwards,
weep in mourning for the dying year.
An early twilight closing in, makes
far horizons blur to blues.
The distant tree-line darkest blue,
then paler till –
screening the glowering moors –
the mist is almost white
before it seeps into a bloodless sky.
Later we sip flat whites,
the dampness draining from our bones,
the scene outside dissolving.
Ephemeral beauty on a drab Autumnal day.
A garden on the cusp of Winter.
Cate Anderson
One of the Headingley Open Gardens collection. Click to see the full list