The winter face of Marie’s “Iceberg” in January.
In recent comments there, Webb wondered how I felt at seeing the pictures of that terrace today and remembering my time there… and it’s probably high time I told readers !
In case some of you don’t know, I am not an Australian. And most certainly not a tropical native! I was born in a town named for a much older, English town and wonderfully planted by settlers with clear memories of “home.”
So my earliest Spring memories mesh very well with the images Marie is currently posting.
And as I walked around my borrowed city (and I walked miles, every day!) my gardener’s eye took in the winter framework and pictured “my” streets clad in pink Spring froth, edged in jewel-bright borders, gathering her lacy skirts for that sudden dash into summer, tumbling over the calendar’s pages, often driven by a rough storm and leaving us to pine for Spring’s fancy…
Back in the almost-seasonless tropics, I sift such sights and memories, replaying them in my mind. A bit like those old eight-tracks!
My walk yesterday took me along a new to me path…a friend and I parked the car and walked along the riverside pathway. No spring blossom here, but many of the local “wattles” (Acacia sp.) are in bud; I shall go back in a few days to check how close they are to opening. Of course, I’ll be able to tell that from the road by their perfume!
I collected a few Macaranga leaves which had some interesting bug-holes. The idea was to run a few prints from them, but they wilted very quickly in the heat (at least mid-twenties, Celsius) and despite my soaking them and wrapping them in damp paper…well, see for yourself…
Some of the smaller leaves were too brittle and simply crumpled under even gentle pressure. Note to self: next time take damp paper in plastic bag.
Some bright flowers to close with. Tropical Autumn, not Northern Spring. You should go to Brooklyn for that!