Dedicated to my late friend, Daniel
Kirkpatrick who left us on this day 5 years ago...
"Comme on voit sur la branche au
mois de mai la rose,
En sa belle jeunesse, en sa première fleur,
Rendre le ciel jaloux de sa vive couleur,
Quand l’Aube de ses pleurs au point du jour l’arrose". Pierre de Ronsard 1524-1585
En sa belle jeunesse, en sa première fleur,
Rendre le ciel jaloux de sa vive couleur,
Quand l’Aube de ses pleurs au point du jour l’arrose". Pierre de Ronsard 1524-1585
For the uninitiated amongst you, Pierre De Ronsard was a renaissance poet. I'm
sure Dan knew about him. He wrote beautiful poetry about many things, including nature. Dan would have liked that. Very famous at the time, he was the equivalent of a
rock star in his era, though better behaved. He even wrote a poem to
his love Marie, “quand vous serez bien
vielle”, "when you are very old" – that was of similar sentiment
to The Beatles “When I’m sixty-four”. Why am I going on about some poet from
five hundred years ago? Well, he wrote the two quotes that inspired today’s
blog. He also knew Mary Queen of Scots, regarded her highly - more than most
Scots did - and sang her praises in verse. I realize May has long gone but May
this year was so beautiful and my roses are still blooming (just) so Pierre’s lovely
words seemed apt.
Chilly mornings. The first red leaves on the trees. Berries appearing. A change of mood,
of vibe. Another summer has gone. There
may well be some more warm days, but summer is no more. One minute it was here,
announcing itself in early May with hot days and glorious blue skies and the
promise that early summer brings. And – August aside - it didn’t disappoint.
Nature reacted in kind; swifts thundering through the blue skies, bats silently
speeding past on warm evenings in their fleeting manner, random, colourful
insects appearing at the table, late at night. Then, in seemingly an instant,
it’s gone. I love summer. I love all the seasons for their unique
characteristics, but summer's passing is undoubtedly the saddest for me. It comes and goes with ruthless abandon. Not
really appearing fully till late May – psychologically at least - when
everything is suddenly green, June and July pass so very quickly. Very hot this
year until August when blue skies became the exception rather than the rule of
the previous three months. However, this is not a lament, more a celebration,
with a hint of sadness that I can never quite shake.
With Autumn’s imminent arrival, there’s plenty of life
in the garden. The buzz and hum of insects has mostly gone – though warm days will see more buzz - but the
birds are full of activity and numbers. The great tits and the goldfinches have
produced a second brood of youngsters. And most of the other garden birds are
fairly conspicuous, including blue tits, dunnocks, blackbirds and the robin. An
exception being the little wren which I haven’t seen or heard. The continued
appearance of one or two stray bees serves as a reminder of the joys of summer,
and most, though not all, of the flowers remain full of vim and vigour.
So it’s not all doom and gloom. Autumn is a wonderful
season; of colour, mist and atmosphere and the dastardly mosquitoes will soon
be gone, but early September is a kind of no-mans' land between the two, so the
best we can hope for is some warm sunshine to bask in.
Nature'
s changing
seasons are like dogs. They remind us or help us to be in the moment. Don’t
lament summers passing, relish the pleasure it gave but don’t lament it. I’m
saying that to myself. Nature doesn’t stop. Life continues. Nothing is
permanent. And one day you’ll be sixty-four or seventy-four or eighty-four…. As
Ronsard also wrote “Cueillez, dès aujourd’huy, les roses de la vie…”, "Gather from today, the roses of life".
Bloody gardening metaphors again.
