Winter feels prolonged this year; it's September and still the gales are blowing and the dams are slowly filling. Stepping outside you feel inclined to pack a wind jacket and umbrella in spite of the deceptively blue sky.
Though spring is slowly creeping into the garden, it is still winter enough to warrant another post.
The Physalis is fruiting though it is the insects that have made for such a stunning display of the seedpod. I keep meaning to dry them for the remainder of the year, but they never make it far beyond the bush.
Between branches silken strands catch at the glow of the dying sun, illuminating the prey within. It is the only time such a net does not disappear against the busy background as it stretches out across a path, or between the frames of a doorway.
One of my favourite parts of winter is the swathes of wattle that fill bush land and pepper the sides of the freeway. Growing up we had a tree that you could stand under, and tilting your head back, submerse your face in the subtle sweetness of the flowers. Today, this tree is long gone, replaced instead by others, this sandpaper wattle among them (with the flowers as downy as ever, it is the texture of the leaves that gives it its name).
And yet there are still reminders of Spring's approach; in the park a lone pink and gray galah keeps watch from the branch outside his nest, cocking his head at every noise and passer by. It remains to be seen whether spring will be so fortunate and bring with it the plaintive cries of baby birds.
Though spring is slowly creeping into the garden, it is still winter enough to warrant another post.
This pink boronia is quietly celebrated having survived this long. It has been left alone, forgotten about, in the hopes that unlike its predecessors it would not provoke and die an unexpected death. Lord knows what the grevillia below is thinking, though it too appears to like the idea of being likened to a Christmas decoration.
One of my favourite parts of winter is the swathes of wattle that fill bush land and pepper the sides of the freeway. Growing up we had a tree that you could stand under, and tilting your head back, submerse your face in the subtle sweetness of the flowers. Today, this tree is long gone, replaced instead by others, this sandpaper wattle among them (with the flowers as downy as ever, it is the texture of the leaves that gives it its name).
And yet there are still reminders of Spring's approach; in the park a lone pink and gray galah keeps watch from the branch outside his nest, cocking his head at every noise and passer by. It remains to be seen whether spring will be so fortunate and bring with it the plaintive cries of baby birds. 
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