News from the Lilac Tree.

I sat outside in my garden last night. The day had been hot. The evening air was cooling and I didn’t have to look at the mess that’s my yard. Last year I shrank away from outdoors in horror, only slinking outside quickly to put some wet clothes on the washing line. Any attempt at taming my jungle was random spraying of weeds and a quick hack at the worse of them. Pruning roses is different. It’s an autumn or early spring chore and there’s something satisfying about loping off the dead branches and pruning back to the bare minimum.
I didn’t do anything about the lilac tree. Well it was just a bush some years back, but then I let it go and now it’s a tree. A very large and fragrant tree, especially come dusk. Of course it’s far too large for my small garden, but maybe that’s wrong. Perhaps my garden is too small for my lilac tree?

Anyhow. I couldn’t possibly do much about it, not with my bad back and lack of strength needed to lop off high branches. Besides, it brings me news most of the year and its home to what seems like hundreds of birds come spring and summer. They were still out there last night, the early squabbles of the day now settling down as they did what birds do. I imagine there could be quite a few nests in the leafy branches. There must be some reason for all that to-ing and fro-ing.
I thought of how bare it is in Winter and how I can tell what the direction of the wind is as the branches bend and sway. I wondered how my winter visitors had fared. The birds that I fed and the cheeky squirrel that drove my cat mad. Mostly though I thought about seasons and patterns. You know, those deep introspective thoughts that bubble up in ones mind?

I am like my garden, or my garden is like me. Lopsided, sprawling in all directions and untidy as hell. There are dark corners hidden underneath bushes where things lurk unseen. Dog-roses mix with the cultivated ones and form little tunnels for the inhabitants of my jungle. I doubt they care about pedigree as long as there’s shelter, colour and scent.
Occasionally some totally unexpected plant rears it head from the dark brown soil. Unlike me the soil is fertile, but like me it can throw a few surprises now and again. It hides things from the outside world, keeping to itself it’s rare treasures. Daylight plays through greenery and casts shadows in cool pools. Sunrise barely touches it but evenings are full of colour as the setting sun sends out last tendrils of light to gloss the ivy-clad wall opposite my kitchen window.

We are growing old together, my garden and me. We don’t see many people but we have plenty of other visitors. I’m far too lazy to care about what species they are, as long as they want to visit they are welcome.
Soon the tool-shed will disappear in the undergrowth and the old bath that’s been in the yard for four years now will eventually rot away. Until then the scent of the lilac will perfume spring evenings until the roses and lilies take over. An evening will come when the first star peers down and I’m no longer there. I wonder who will listen to news from the Lilac tree then?