I think of you / where your gardens have no walls [OPEN]
In a house in the nicer side of town, lives a young man who is busy making the best garden possible. The house is a pleasant, two-storey affair, with light blue paint and white trim and window shutters. The back yard still has some kids toys in it, because Seymour doesn't care much about the back yard. He's busy with the front.
There’s a stone walkway to the front door, with large, beautiful bursts of colourful flowers on either side. Almost too many for one garden to support: Seymour hasn’t given sustainability much of a thought, nor has patterning much entered into the garden plan. Seymour, in shorts and a T-shirt, is kneeling amongst the dirt. He's just finished planting the last of the tiger lilies. Patting the earth down with the spade, he surveys his work.
Trellises with honeysuckle vines and clematis vines, check. Petunias of almost every shade imaginable, check. Dahlias the size of dinner plates, check. Purple foxgloves for hummingbirds (not that Seymour bothered to check whether hummingbirds even come to Wisconsin), check. White and yellow gladiolus to contrast against the dark purple daylilies, check. White calla lilies, pale red and yellow begonias, and purple hostas in the shadier part of the garden, check. And, naturally, rose bushes (along with some lesser known varieties) for smell. It’s too late in the season for lilacs, which is a pity.
Any space not covered in flowers is covered in elephant’s ear ferns or goutweed, which is much prettier than it sounds. A few shrubs add shade and vary the texture of the garden.
There’s a bowl of raspberries (stolen from a nearby garden) and a glass of pink lemonade by the two steps that lead up to the door. Seymour sits down on his stoop and munches away. He’s sweaty, panting, and perfectly happy.
There’s a stone walkway to the front door, with large, beautiful bursts of colourful flowers on either side. Almost too many for one garden to support: Seymour hasn’t given sustainability much of a thought, nor has patterning much entered into the garden plan. Seymour, in shorts and a T-shirt, is kneeling amongst the dirt. He's just finished planting the last of the tiger lilies. Patting the earth down with the spade, he surveys his work.
Trellises with honeysuckle vines and clematis vines, check. Petunias of almost every shade imaginable, check. Dahlias the size of dinner plates, check. Purple foxgloves for hummingbirds (not that Seymour bothered to check whether hummingbirds even come to Wisconsin), check. White and yellow gladiolus to contrast against the dark purple daylilies, check. White calla lilies, pale red and yellow begonias, and purple hostas in the shadier part of the garden, check. And, naturally, rose bushes (along with some lesser known varieties) for smell. It’s too late in the season for lilacs, which is a pity.
Any space not covered in flowers is covered in elephant’s ear ferns or goutweed, which is much prettier than it sounds. A few shrubs add shade and vary the texture of the garden.
There’s a bowl of raspberries (stolen from a nearby garden) and a glass of pink lemonade by the two steps that lead up to the door. Seymour sits down on his stoop and munches away. He’s sweaty, panting, and perfectly happy.