I should have taken a picture. I wanted to, but the moment passed before I could, or did. It didn't happen suddenly, I had days, maybe even a couple of weeks when I kept saying, each time I came home, "I must take a picture of that." But I didn't and now it's too late. The rain is belting down and it's rained off the last of them. They're blending into the mud below, twirling around blades of grass, becoming mulch, indecipherable from the mud.
Hundreds of little deep purple flowers from the Potato Bush, pale blue Plumbago, yellow ones from the Bush with Yellow Flowers (name unknown) and bright pink bougainvillea, all pushing out over the fence of The House in the Middle of the Street, unruly and sticking their tongues out at the impending Winter.
It's a brave little garden my beloved mother has created here at my house. My fingers are not green, hers are an astounding shade of it. Her garden needs to be seen to be believed, it's gorgeous. I'm a lucky girl that she was kind enough to do mine for me too and she filled it with wild, unruly bushes that have entwined themselves around the palings and push their way out to trail their petals along passersby's arms when they walk past. It's a riot of colour and green.
And I love that, like me, my little garden always makes one last stand in late Autumn. It produces flowers profusely and throws its petals about boldly in the face of Winter.
I wish I'd taken that photo but, as seasons are wont to do, they'll happen again and maybe, just maybe, next year I'll take it in time.
22 hours ago