The twenty sixth day

A vibrant spring day in the garden today. The colours of new leaf and grass are intensely green, or in some cases, red and copper.

The tulip season is done. The time to dig up and preserve bulbs is here. Incredible to think back on the coloured frenzy that descended on the garden. Very little blossom remains. The rhododendrons though are coloured white, red, pink and pale yellow throughout the garden.

Tiny rolls blissfully in the grass or reclines gracefully contemplating her lot.

There is some sadness today. The garden's owner found two little currawong nestlings dead in the garden, killed by vicious hail a couple of nights ago. We are unsure what the mother is doing on the nest. Is there another nestling?

Or is she mourning?

The twenty fifth day

I went to the garden today to take some photos that might better show the breadth of this place. Due to the recent bad weather the garden's owner was reopening the garden again and there were a few people arriving as I turned up.

It was just a quick visit on this holiday Monday. Although I wanted to capture wider angles, wider vistas, once more I was seduced by floral detail.

The brief frenzy of fantastically hued flowers is beginning, almost imperceptibly,to slow again, not this time for the winter season, but in readiness for the heat of long summer days.

The twenty fourth day

It had been so glorious on the twenty third day, just the day before. In the night the rains came, thundering on our tin roof. I woke often, worrying about the garden.

I went to the garden with friends. Every year the garden's owner generously opens his garden and provides wine and as much time as people want to wander around the garden. As I thought ,the damage caused by the wind and rain was very obvious. However many of the people who were there were gardeners themselves and well aware of the pattern of the seasons and the weather.

It felt odd to be amongst people in this place that has provided such a refuge this year. The usual serenity of the garden was broken by the sound of voices and laughter. The garden of course was very happy to accommodate this, as was the garden's owner.

I slipped away and wandered on my own around the garden. The tulips which had survived the deluge glowed with their individual colours, all the colours of the rainbow.

Even with the unaccustomed noise, the garden found a way to provide me with peace.

The lady beetle moved placidly on its green leaf.

The twenty third day

I am beginning to understand the 17th century Dutch phenomenon of tulip fever.

I took my daughter to the garden this morning. She played with Tiny and looked for fairies. She announced that this was the very best thing I had ever done with her.

The colours of the tulips are exquisite. One yellow tulip looked as though a Flemish master had taken a brush, dipped it in red paint, and delicately washed the petals with crimson. Others are like candy striped lollies. Still others are of the utmost simplicity - white petals with green stamens.

Some tulip beds are planted in single colour groupings - made even more beautiful by a random tulip in a completely different colour. Other beds are a riot of primary colours, joyful in the shine of the sun.

In amongst the vivid colours, the cloud stippled sky, the green leaved, large limbed trees I was struck by something.

Is there anything in the world more delicate than blossom caught in the shivery silver of a spider's web?