Leaf Fall

Leaves come and fall in our garden from all kinds of places.  The wind blows oak leaves from the venerable tree at our corner into the nooks of our driveway and patio; the birch trees in the park shed their light burden on to our back lawn; the hazels in the hedge come down and even the trembling yellow poplars at the farthest edge of the playing field, by the old farm bungalow, are shaken by the winds and deposited here.  My husband is diligently collecting all of this potential leaf-mould for our compost bins.

Closer to our kitchen window the raspberries that survived into November have been finally caught by the frost, as have the blackcurrants.  It is hard to resist poking at a bush. Detaching the last leaf from the base of next year's bud releases a strong scent, a foretaste of summer fruit.  I think I never really noticed before how the top leading bud grows above the curved scar of the old.

The leaves that fell from the hazels, with no need of human hand, now reveal the coming year's dangling catkins, tight against the cold.  The evergreen holly that I culled for Advent decoration, is decking our hall, but upon close inspection the buds of next year's tiny white flowers were also apparent and wait to blossom on the bushes for the red berries of a Christmas to come.