The Gypsy Garden

September has been a beauty this year. With a flush in her cheeks and with a twinkle in her eye, she has begun casting her golden light over the land. I've remembered all that I love about this brilliant month. It is such a fleeting and magical time (and not just because my birthday is in this month!). Really, that deal summer made with winter, the one where winter agreed to her turning to gold and crimson and dancing out with an entourage of swirling leaves and flocking birds, was a clever deal.

 

It starts off with the subtlest blush in the mornings. Even green is a little weary of itself and longs for a bit of flash

 

The garden begins to look a little ragged around the edges, like someone who has spent too many nights out dancing under the moon and now they are a little muddied and their hair a bit wild

 

I've felt like dancing myself these last few weeks. Somehow, this season, with its insouciance stirs a little gypsy in my soul. (My English grandmother always claimed to my dad that there was some gypsy blood on her side. We never knew if this was true, but it seemed terribly romantic to me as a child.)

 

In recent years I've become interested in gypsy music. For an excellent radio documentary on the original gypsy music click here.

I know what is coming. I know the lassitude that deep winter brings. I know all about the days ahead of curling up on the couch with a good book and a glass of wine, candles lit in the late afternoon.

Until those days come, I am dancing in the golden light. To say goodbye to summer, my husband and I waltzed in the back garden in the late evening light. I said my own goodbyes in a field under the stars looking out over the ravine. But today it's time for one last joyous spin, and to thumb our noses at waiting winter. Join me, won't you?