Seasonal Dissonance

13 June 2024

Cold at 6:00 a.m. Thin sun cuts across a high blue sky reminiscent of a September morning and all the familiar feelings of going back to school. Looking up, you would be none the wiser, and would accept the crisp-aired poignancy of autumn. Look down, however, and the flowers in the borders still belong to early summer.

Geranium, buttercup, daisy – the pinks and mauves, the yellows and whites – all features of the right side of the solstice. These plants have none of the ragged petals and bent stems that mark the end of a long display. They are adolescents arrived on time and waiting for the party to start, only to find the host unprepared and surprised to see them. Without the heat of the sun their petals remain bright but small, stems check themselves and leaves lie low.

Birds remain unperturbed, of course, and do their daily rounds. The blackbird sings a short verse before taking a drink and the wren pursues her new project among the pots. This half-life does not bother them – they are used to the winter chill. On the rare days the sun shines, the sparrows have an exciting project stripping nameless bugs from the brambles. The blue tits, too, know all too well where the aphids hide in the roses.

Over in the fruit garden, the blackberry holds on tight to its small, hard fruit. Tiny drupelets cluster together, firm as clenched fists giving nothing away. The apples made a pretence of abundance back in April – big, blowsy blossoms full of promise – but of the fruits that formed, some have already fallen. Strawberries too, seemed prolific, but now they cling to the cold earth and cannot ripen.

The garden seems distilled in this weak light, and I feel as if I am viewing it through a long lens. Light without heat. Damp without rain. My childhood summers linger at the periphery of memory, an immersive theatre of sound and smell and warmth on my skin, and briefly, I begin to live vicariously. Until a slow movement among the foxgloves draws my eye; white-tailed bumblebees take their low hum from anther to stigma in an endless song of ancient labour. I make my way back up to the house. Behind me, the false September morning gives way to reluctant June.