Garden - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Into the bowl go the fruits of the garden as little Carissa tiptoes through the plants. The splash of red berries is so vibrant upon the green ceramic and her hands spread over the clay ripples as perfect starfish upon summer rocks.
Among my friends of root and wand, amid each green leaf and delicate petal, there are the dancing birds and the squirrels that dart. It is as if the song, the scurries and the subtle movements of flora are their voice, the song of the garden for those who listen with more than their ears.
The garden was always a shade brighter in the rain. It was as if the gift of the skies wasn't water, but liquid magic, washing our world to show what was there all along, nature in her in humble brilliance. The buttercups became gold, the grass the shade of every dreamers meadow, roots quenched, soil renewed. And after the patter of the rain came bursts of birdsong, their hearts rejoicing the occasion of the rain.
The gardener and garden are as children playing rough, each smiling as they push back on one another. The role of the person is to bring the balance they need, the role of nature is to assert herself as she cradles the life that dwells within. I always saw Pearl as a gentle gardener, one who joined hands with the greenery to cradle nature too. She left the top fruit for the birds, that which fell to the floor for creatures of fur and paw. There were the wild parts, the tame parts, chaos and order in one beautiful system.
It was described as a formal garden. The bonsai trees lined the perfect lawn in their wooden boxes. In the centre there was a pond as large as a small lake with flowering lily pads and a wooden bridge that crossed the middle so you could look down at the koi carp. The flower beds were a riot of May colour and even on close inspection they were weed-free.
There was a gate of rough wood was as big as a cow and ivy cascaded over the fence, growing tendrils in every direction. The stone path was punctuated with weeds after every stone. The dishevelled, un-manicured lawn was more moss than grass and was over shadowed by huge weeping willow flowing down onto the dank and squishy ground. Clusters of defiant daffodils reared their golden heads amidst the gloom and there were smatters of fuchsia along side the scarlet and saffron hued primroses.
The grass has been mown so short the ground shows through. The moss is scuffed, rolling away from the soil like a carpet, its once strong greens yellowing in the heat. Larry stands back, satisfied with his work. Grass cut like that takes a far longer time to grow back, the shorter the better. Then he had more time to work on his other projects; there was always so much to do.
Mrs Pollock is at the door again, wanting to know when I will chop down my nasty diseased tree. She is quite certain that it will infect her expensive plants next door. From the ferocity of her vent I know this isn't the first time she's had this conversation. Likely she's been telling her friends for a couple of weeks and finally has just the right combination of accumulated anger and tacit support to come to me. I listen without interruption until she's just glaring, hands on hips. I can almost see steam from those red cheeks. I turn to fetch a pen and paper, I want to write it down this time. In all caps I scrawl "corkscrew hazel, google it," and hand it over with a weak smile that hides my urge to hit her hard. That tree is the joy of my garden, it's twigs hang in ringlets like my daughter's hair did when she was young. In winter the denuded branches are artistic and carefree, turning in their random ways. I know her garden is all straight lines, but I need nature's chaos to relax.
The garden stretched up into town, winding like a black river through the bright party towers and houses.
The apple tree was to be the jewel of the garden. The way Tom planned it we would be drinking in the aromas of the late summer blooms, soothed by the waterfall between the two ponds and sinking our teeth into the delicate skin of home grown organic apples. After a busy winter and spring in the warehouse, sorting inventory before the big boss's audit, the neglected tree was in no state to be the jewel of anything. The bark had a sort of creeping mildew and the leaves were curled in an unhealthy way. It bore apples of sort, some even with a pink blush, but they all bore deep brown spots. Tom frowned, the television show had made all this look so simple, he's spend a few grand and have a garden oasis for summer. He cast his eyes to the fish pond...
There was a circular lawn with a path around it. There was a central bed of shrubs. Outside of the lawn area were four rose bush beds to fill up the square area.
Tangled thickets of thorn, flower beds, dishevelled lawns, tangled hawthorn, summer greenness, knotted boughs, branches drooped dankly.
Leaf loam, rough bark, rich colours, iridescent blues and greens, blade-like leaves, clumps of willows, shaggy autumnal trees, vegetable patch, stunted cabbages, caterpillar eaten leaves, tree foliage, daffodils
Laurel, almost leafless privet, enclosing flower gardens, geraniums, fushias, heliotropes, chrysanthemums, dahlias, michaelmas daises, unweeded, unmown, mown, shaggy grass, begonias, lavender, spongey turf, wide lawn.