Gardening with Margaret Matthews
Leaving my garden … in summer?
by Margaret Matthews
Many of us will remember the song from the musical ‘Camelot’, ‘If ever I should leave you’. I think of this sometimes as I walk in my garden. (I only think of it. To give it voice would frighten the birds!)
Anyone over their three-score years and ten (and I am well past) will know what it is like to lose family members and friends, and leaving a well-loved garden can be almost as traumatic as the loss of a human life. Some of the trees and shrubs in old family gardens may have been planted before we were born, and may well live on long after we are gone, hopefully bringing joy to others. But as we grow more aware that we are indeed mortal, and that there may not be many more seasons to come and go, certain plants in the garden may have special meaning for us as they reach their point of perfection. I am writing specifically of the plants in my own garden. Many of them have a special meaning for me, because they were given me by friends or planted to commemorate an occasion.
As I write it is high summer. The time of roses, hydrangeas, lilies and leafy spreading trees. Roses … the Duchess de Brabant beguiles me with her fragrant, fragile, pale pink cups. The tall stately Elina displays her pointed cream buds, opening to wide flowers with a lemon-yellow flush at the heart. Then there is Renae, a weeping standard. Renae trails long sprays of semi-double lavender-pink blossom, opening from a myriad of tiny buds. Julia’s rose, a creamy-beige, and the frilled deep-apricot Just Joey are two other special favourites. But I have not mentioned Crepuscule (in case you are wondering, from a Latin source, meaning ‘twilight’) which smothers the front fence with her soft apricot blooms, and repeats the performance several times a year.
Then, also in summer, the yellow and white Asiatic lilies come into bloom from November to January and are followed by a Calla Lily, which is appropriately called ‘Mango’, because of its furled, burnt-orange flowers. It has silver-spotted dark green leaves.
Roses and lilies – and all the other summer flowers. No, this is not a time to leave the garden.
In autumn, the Crepe Myrtles’ pink and mauve flowers are followed by richly coloured leaves. The Gleditsia, a tall and spreading tree, had golden leaves in spring, vivid green in summer, and now they are turning gold again before leaf-fall. Prunus Elvins and the Crab apple (Malus ioensis ‘plena’) not content with their dazzling spring display of blossom, reward me in autumn with their bright leaves. Because mine is a small garden, some trees, like these, have to ‘perform’ twice a year to claim a place. The Rowan tree, for which my younger son is named, puts on his russet coat, and the oak-leave hydrangea’s white flowers have now shaded to pink, while its foliage burns red and purple, a last salute to the dying year.
No, I couldn’t leave the garden in autumn.
But what of winter in the garden? I hear you ask. Surely this would be the time to go? Nothing happens in winter. There are few flowers, many trees are bare, the birds are silent. But the garden in winter has its own charm. The branches and trunks of trees have delicately coloured and patterned bark. Old trees are twisted and gnarled into grotesque shapes. Many native plants – grevilleas, banksias, correas, acacias – brighten the dark days of June and July with their yellow, red and orange flowers. And the perennials and bulbs which went underground in autumn are putting forth tentative green shoots. Winter is a time of anticipation. Just think what I might miss if I left the garden then.
Spring is the season of rebirth and hope, and as the sap rises and the sun shines, it is difficult not to respond to this sudden rush of growth and blossom. Cheeky bulbs pop up in the border – ‘Earli-cheer’, tiny poeticus and hoop-petticoat daffodils, crocus, snowdrops, bluebells, babianas and freesias. Then, in October, the spring flush of roses begins. The crab apple has a perfect vase shape, and now it is decked out in pink buds and white flowers, completely clothing the tree. The bees are busily gathering nectar, but within a few days the first petals will fall and break the spell. Spring is the season of renewed life. It would be hard to leave a garden in spring!
But now, it is summer. I turn from my desk to the window and I see the three lemon-scented gums which I planted the first year I began my garden. They are beautiful throughout the year. Tall and straight, with their marvellous bark which changes from green to soft pink, and then peels away to reveal the white trunks which are their trademark. Their lemon-scented canopy of dark green leaves is a mecca for birds in summer when the white flowers are rich with nectar.
These trees can be seen from beyond my garden. One day, they will be a landmark, taller than any surrounding building or trees since the great old pine trees were felled throughout our suburb. I don’t feel any sense of ownership of these trees. After I leave my garden they will remain, even if the less permanent plants die or are replaced by a new owner who inherits it. These trees too, will one day die, but compared to a human life, they seem infinite.
Margaret Matthews March article
