Friday, June 18, 2010
The ground is thirsty. The clay is baked, cracked.
Verbena bonariensis and the Euphorbias, singing their "duop-duops" in the silver corner after an opening act of Provence lavender blues, don't seem to mind; in fact, I think they rather enjoy being hot and bothered, swaying in the southern breezes. "Bring me my G&T," I hear myself saying aloud to no one in particular. This show is proving to be good. Only Miss Gray Kitty responds with her meow. And I continue standing there, empty handed, Bombay Sapphire awaiting me in the freezer. Go figure.
Lysimachia river, whose course has since been diverted since I last wrote about my riveting trip down her chartreuse colored waves. If her shielded sister has mounded, dense and tight, and has sported two appreciable flowers, the other's new shoots were repeatedly assaulted by ravenous slugs whose nectar is the young dahlia. She remains under assault, but this time by harsh early season sun and dry conditions.
fetish for rock.
And so we wait for rain. Nay, we beg for rain. And water those who yearn for April showers, now a distant memory.