Selinum wallichianum
Were I a poet I think I might have to write an ode to Selinum wallichianum. In the garden at the moment it’s outstanding – at the height of its display. It combines strength and structure with delicate refinement. In spring it rises later than most perennials but, once it’s decided to get up, it briskly spreads out its basal leaves to form a neat mat. Each leaf is intricately divided, making big, deep green doilies among clumps of flowering daffodils or the fresh new foliage of daylilies or phlox. During late summer, the stems part and the flower buds begin to emerge. They’re inverted and swaddled by the pink-bronze stems like flamingos with their heads tucked under their wings. When they emerge, the flower stems begin to straighten and extend until the fat buds, swathed by long white bracteoles, are held horizontally. Each flower head becomes a plateau composed of tens of smaller florets, which in turn are made up of myriad tiny flowers. The arrangement of the slender stems, which form the scaffolding supporting the flowers, is miraculous. The flower heads are impeccably fashioned, their plates perfect circles composed of smaller circles. Last year for the first time, I grew a load from seed. They’ve been nurtured through the heatwaves. This autumn I shall plant them out lavishly.