There is something quite delightful about a flat-backed pot that sits so perfectly against a terracotta wall, sprouting verdant geranium. A little bubble of an Italian streetscape transplanted into a Melbourne suburb.
It’s fun to plant seeds. I sprinkle them on the dirt, water them in and promptly forget I have done so. Then one day I get a wonderful surprise to find they’re sprouting tiny little leaves. Lettuce abundance is just around the corner.
While walking to the shed this afternoon my attention was caught by a familiar yet unidentified scent. I looked around and realised my Green Wattle has bloomed. It is a mass of fluffy, yellow balls with a distinctive perfume that reminds of growing up in the bush in Smythesdale.
A verdant verge is a pleasure to behold on a sunny Sunday morn. Textures, colours and shapes combine to create a rectangle brimming with energy and life.
I have taken three giant trailer loads of prunings to the tip in the last couple of weeks. The exercise has refreshed my trailer-reversing and knot-tying skills and prompted more than one expletive. Skills aside, it is lovely to look out in the garden and see that all the big pruning has been
Why on earth have I never thought of bringing my herbs inside in Winter? The first chill and they retract into the soil, not to be seen again until Spring. I brought my French Tarragon inside last week, with only the tiniest hint of green above ground. Lo, a week later it is
A ladybug alighted on my laundry basket this morning. She watched as I tamed the flapping sheets into neat little bundles. Undisturbed, or perhaps intrigued, by my presence she continued her day among the green blades of grass.
The brilliant red Rosellas lob in every afternoon before dusk, landing on the washing line outside my lounge room window. They come in pairs and there are three couples who lodge in the tree in my yard. After a bit of argy bargy on the line, they flap up to their roost before
Brilliant sunlight beams through the fog of a frosty autumn morning, illuminating the fine fabric of the vine leaves like an x-ray.
Flying fiercely through the wintery Ballarat skies, the urban dragon does not roar nor breathe fire. Tis a quiet and reserved creature often mistaken for the houseplant Dracaena. I can’t tell you how much pleasure I found upon discovering this morning that the hitherto unidentified plant that I have nicknamed ‘the dragon’ is
