Like the Ents (Lord of the Rings) I favour natural gardens. Not for me neat beds of flowers, immaculately raked brown beds and mown lawns. While I admire their beauty my heart is captivated by the wild where seeds are planted at the hand of the wind, watered by soft rain and arranged in random pattern of perfection far more beautiful to my eye.
Bent or broken branches tell their stories, delicate morning glory flowers on nettles, fallen leaves and branches interweave with child plants reaching up their tender leaves to the sun. Early morning spider webs decked with dew decorate the bushes and frost sets her hand to deck the lowly grass in glory. Decay mottles old broken logs in fascinating patterns of grey and brown, each housing its tiny echo system of life within (in nature nothing is wasted).
Plants, seemingly random, interweave their properties nourishing and replenishing the soil, providing food and habitat, a wonder of the hand of God set in place at nature’s birth, a never ending cycle of life that only man can corrupt, swallowing up ancient cities and habitations reclaiming its territory as man moves on.
Who could want a garden planted by the hand of mere bundling mortals when the divine lies at hand?