I came across Oliver’s poem yesterday, and it spoke to me.

I was privileged in the sense that I was early on instructed by my mother to attend to the less obvious specimens in the floral world around us – just like the poet points to the weeds or small stones, anything but the showstoppers.

Blue Flax – the plant linen is made from.

So much beauty to be found in the borders of the garden, rather than the central beds. (Well, at least in this magical garden created by a true master gardener who is always willing to experiment. Today’s blog is dedicated to you, R.C.!) So many more opportunities for pollinators, too. And that’s before we even get to the wild flowers…

Baby Blue Eyes

Lobelia

Dame’s Rocket

Even the shade of blues in spring is softer, lighter, and there is purple with a hint of pink at times. Summer, of course, gives way to the heavy saturated blues of delphiniums and salvias, but we’ll get to that in time.

Allium

Scabious (Knautia)

Wild Geranium

I have always thought of prayers that give thanks as psychological tools to focus attention( even before I read the poem,) be it to a situation or a feeling, a means of making aware, reminding oneself of the grace that surrounds us at a particular moment.

Desert Bluebell

Not that I expect (or hope for) another voice to make itself known. Acknowledging the beauty or kindness of the world around me is enough. It restores balance for all the fear I’m usually tuned into. It also points to the importance to help the world stay that way, to protect fragility. Acknowledgement, then, paving the path to action.

Borage

The climbers opt for more substantial flower heads, like the wisteria below, about to unfold,

and the clematis.

These photographs, with one exception, were taken on a single day last week. Wherever you look: reason to give thanks for evolutionary pressures to create what we consider beauty. Awareness that there is not just misery in the world. Reminders that we have to act to keep it that way, before the world becomes a hothouse. You might be partial to orchids. But the delicate, porcelain blues I cherish wouldn’t survive that.

Music today is Mozart’s ode to the violet… (below, strictly, are violas.)