Perverse Nature

Perverse Nature

As I write great goblets of rain are hitting the windows sideways in a ferocious gale, gusting around the house, finding every crack, filling the house with cold air and rattling the windows.

The sea across the rooftops has disappeared into a matching grey  sky. Yet in the garden my clematis Montana is beginning to flower as if in defiance. Other more delicate creepers have already bloomed fragile blue flowers then perished. The magnolia tree has great fat buds but not enough sun to warm them into life. The camellias are flowering but are wind burnt before they open and drop brown onto the ground.

A week ago I sat in the garden eating a crab sandwich in warm sunshine admiring my sweet peas who had decided they were everlasting, their greenery still intact after flowering into November. They are now just haystacks of beige clinging to the trellis.

One morning I photographed children being snapped  by their parents on the steps of the prom. A day later I watched the sea heaving itself  relentlessly towards the railings. This is Cornwall in all its variety.


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