The wind from the west
If winter comes, can spring be far behind? A lone onion seed-head still stands in the little island bed, despite Sherkin’s prevailing westerly winds. As our garden lies to the west of the island, with the open Atlantic beyond, we take the full brunt of its strength – and I love it. This is no garden for gardeners but more an open green space where we are grateful for anything that actually grows. I’ll leave you now with a few lines from Shelley’s beautiful poem:
Ode to the West Wind
O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being, Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou, Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low, Each like a corpse within its grave,until Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) With living hues and odours plain and hill: Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere; Destroyer and Preserver; hear, O hear!