How green is my garden. Gone the sandy tones of midsummer. To be replaced by a vibrant almost violent lushness. It calls for a scythe like a Van Gogh painting or like Morten our nearest neighbour favours. Instead, I sort the electric strimmer. I need to trim around the currant bushes, the pears, the apple tree. Henri will set the mower to its highest setting.
It will take at least two trims. Most of the meadow hasn’t been cut since April. It is alive now with pink and white yarrow, yellow lady’s bedstraw, splashes of scattered scarlet poppy.
