As Autumn nears its end, my verandah view is no longer filtered through the pink and burgundy curtain of the ornamental grape vine leaves, for they have all fallen, leaving long lost woody stems that reproach me as I pass, waving bony arms and begging to be pruned.
Now I look through to the darker native forest via a tracery of gold and butter yellow, from the wisteria. Grown from a cutting, this wisteria has never flowered, but I don’t care, for I love its summer gift of shading green and its autumn golden glory.
On the northern corner of the verandah, the local bees are appreciating a different type of gold as they nuzzle into the fuzzy hearts of the Crepuscule climbing roses, all peach and pink and satiny-smooth, with a touch of the ragamuffin and a scent of summer-memory, as it heads into its second flush of flowers.
You can keep sappy Spring; I’m an Autumn girl. And this is my kind of gold.