Today it’s raining. Steady rain like you see in the English countryside, I imagine.
The Japanese andromeda (Pieris japonica) has been in bud since April. It’s a shrub I love because it was part of the first bunch of flowers my husband gave me. I’ve been watching it with the anticipation of a child eyeing-off presents around the tree on Christmas Eve. I’ve been holding the budded stems in my hands, as if by weighing them up I’ll have a better idea of when the flowers will come.
I’ve been searching through the depths of the bush, looking at this group of buds hidden here at the back, and this group down near the ground, covered by the too-neighbourly azalea. (The azalea is the colour of cerise; the colour of a dress Princess Di wore in 1987. Even so, that does’t give it any excuse to stray this close to the andromeda. I had a friend in primary school who would stand so close our arms would touch. I always inched my feet sideways, to make more space between us without hurting her feelings. The azalea is like my friend but the andromeda has nowhere to go).
Yesterday for the first time, I noticed several elegant white stems in full flower, jutting up from the back of the foliage – code ‘high alert’.
Key change: I’ve also just transplanted a pomegranate that was growing deep in the thick along our back fence. The pomegranate went to fruit about a month ago but the fruit was sickly on the outside. A break in the rain an hour ago propelled me with my spade, to thrust and slice at the pomegranate until it came free of the gloodge around it. The plant went into a pot and I went in the house before the rain started again.
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