Most mornings we take our coffee out to the two blue chairs in the garden, finding the spot where the sun reaches us. This summer has been cold in the mornings, so I am usually wrapped in my insulated dryrobe with our dog, Pretzel, on my lap sniffing the air. The grass is damp with dew now and the air still has that slightly wet, cool feeling that lingers before the day warms up.
We have a family of tree sparrows living in the garden and Pretzel has decided they are acceptable. They hop through the grass and borders looking for food while he watches without much concern. Our neighbour sometimes runs past with his children in one of those jogging buggies, which definitely earns them a bark or two. By the time we’re outside the sun has been up for ages, so there is nothing particularly early or virtuous about any of this.
The garden is beginning to look like August. It has reached whatever fullness this dry summer is going to allow it. There are seed heads amongst the flowers and the first signs that summer won’t last. But not everything is winding down.
The roses have been magnificent this year. They have flowered all summer and there are still new buds appearing. The delphiniums, on the other hand, looked so exhausted and wilted that I finally cut them down. The nepeta is trying to come back for another go. The hollyhocks are ridiculously late but enormous.
The sweet peas have struggled. We had a very cold and dry spring followed by a summer with far too little rain, and they never really recovered. There are flowers now, just fewer than there should be. I pick them anyway.
Elsewhere the perennial sunflowers are huge. The magnolia is recovering from the deer making a meal of it over winter. The blue of the sea holly is fading, but it still looks beautiful. So does the phlox. The asters and coneflowers have only just started flowering and I am still waiting for the sedums.
There isn’t really just one season in an August garden. Some things are finished. Some are fading. Some are recovering from being eaten. Some have struggled from the beginning and are managing a few flowers anyway. Some are having another go. Others are only just getting started.
I can still potter about in the garden. Not as much as I would like, and considerably less than the garden would happily allow me to do. There is always another weed, another plant that needs tying in, something that could be moved or watered or fussed over. I wish constantly that I could do more.
I can deadhead, though. I rather like deadheading. I only bother with the plants that will reward me with more flowers. Otherwise I leave the old heads where they are for the birds. There is something satisfying about snipping off the spent flowers, but also about knowing when to leave well alone.
This year we also made a pond. It is still skimpy around the edges. I’ve planted things, but they haven’t yet had time to grow into the space, so it looks very much like what it is: a new pond waiting to become an old one.
But the wildlife didn’t wait. Dragonflies appeared almost immediately. There are frogs. Fieldfares come to bathe. Word seems to have got around remarkably quickly that there is now water here and everyone is invited. Every day I go up to check the water lily. It is new and I don’t expect it to flower this year. All I am waiting for is another leaf. A new lily pad pushing its way to the surface feels quite disproportionately exciting.
There’s a lot of ‘still’ in the garden this time of year.
The roses are still making buds. The sweet peas are still flowering. The nepeta is trying again. The magnolia is recovering. The sea holly is fading and still beautiful. The asters are beginning and the sedums haven’t even had their turn yet.
And I am still here to notice.
It is difficult not to think about endings these days. I know more about uncertainty than I particularly wanted to. My world has become smaller and the garden is important to me partly because of that. I sit in it. I watch it. I potter when I can. I notice new leaves.
And I still think ahead.
At the end of September I have some bare-root roses arriving. They won’t do much this year. Their flowers belong to another summer. I ordered them anyway.
August isn’t autumn. Things don’t have to be over simply because you can see that they will end.
Perhaps that is why I don’t mind the seed heads amongst the flowers. The garden doesn’t seem troubled by the contradiction. It can be fading and flowering at the same time. One plant can be finished while another is only beginning. A water lily can put up a new leaf in a pond that didn’t exist last summer.
There is still coffee in the blue chairs. Still damp grass in the mornings. Still sparrows in the borders and Pretzel sitting on a lap, nose lifted to catch whatever interesting thing has passed through the garden overnight.
Still buds on the roses.
And more roses coming in September.