Spring is at its apogee. The first full flush of roses has come and gone. New growth leaps forward from the cotoneaster, the camellias, the hebes. I cut back everything six inches, though most should get more. Lots more.
I don’t see beauty, only work.
Stop a while. Look. Ten years ago when this garden was newly mature I thought it had a kind of artistry that could make anyone, no matter how insensitive, weak in the knees. Balance, subtlety, color, serenity, and brilliant use of space. In the past ten years the garden has gone on being beautiful though overworked knees buckle in less welcome ways. Do the owners of the garden, like me, gaze unmoved by is beauty? Does custom stale her infinite variety?
Over the weekend I had some friends over for brunch. I did it up, tasty omelets, frites, fresh orange juice. It was mildly appreciated, though perfect in its small way. Except, of course, if you eat out at any one of a thousand places in the city that feature brunch.
The bouquet on the table, composed of flowers from my own garden, was sublime, or would have been ten years ago.