Waiting game
The annual disrobing of his oak tree stirs a desire in MICHAEL McCOY for a speedier pace of renewal
As a gardener, I’m addicted to change. My ideal garden would present some new and fresh excitement every time I wandered out into it. Well, maybe not every time. That might be asking too much. But at least once a day.
Change, of course, is messy. Whether it’s the falling of leaves, or the dramatic decline of ornamental grasses that bolt from ground level to 3m tall each year, or even the dying leaves that linger after daffodils have flowered, gardens that celebrate change are hard work. Unfortunately, for all my willingness to live with the consequences of a spectacularly seasonal garden, there are very few moments in the ebb and flow of my particular climate that allow for the rate of change I crave.
This month my garden experiences the most dramatic change event of the garden calendar, often overnight, when a high wind leaves our deciduous trees completely leafless. The grand old oak that billows up on the front lawn and dominates the view from nearly every point in our little valley is skeletonised, and we’re left without its protective umbrageous canopy for at least five months. The moment of change is thrilling, in its way, as there’s light beaming into corners that you’d forgotten about. Distant views open up, along with enormous unbroken skies. I love all that. The sobering part is that it’s the last change for a very long time.
In spring, there’s a passing show of bulbs, the ‘sparklers of season’ par excellence. In early to mid summer, perennials gatecrash the party, and entirely dominate it. By late summer and into autumn, there’s a slowing, but bulbs, again, are the focus of my daily wanderings. I’m invariably watching for signs
“I’m invariably watching for signs of uplift, as subterranean rumblings lead, in days, to startlingly colourful blooms”
of uplift, as subterranean rumblings lead, within days, to startlingly colourful blooms.
But they’re all gone by now. And once the leaves are blown down, it’s months of apparently lifeless monotony. The next significant change will be the arrival of the snowdrops, and depending on the date of leaf fall, that’ll be about 80 days away.
Thankfully, as the garden lies dormant, the imagination doesn’t. In the absence of floral action, planning for next season begins, and anticipation pops up in places you didn’t know you’d planted any. Michael blogs at thegardenist.com.au