A Year in the Walled Garden.
25 Oct 2012 07:15 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
curiouswombatI have drabbled.
This is a set where the theme was times of year - and we began them quite soon after I visited the walled garden at Baddesley Clinton with![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
gillo - which is where the inspiration came from.
So;eight true drabbles, featuring Faramir, Éowyn, but starring the walled garden. Rated G. Oh - and with illustrations!
Summertime
The air itself was indolent; heavy with the scent of summer flowers, too lazy to move, so that it sat over the garden like a warm blanket.
In the borders fat, pollen-laden, bees lumbered from blossom to blossom before they, too, became indolent and dozed in the heat.
Faramir felt the thick, perfumed, air sink over him as soon as he stepped out of the stone coolness of the house. He fought off ennui just long enough to settle, like another somnolent bee, beside his preferred bloom where she slept on the grass midst other, smaller, gold and white flowers.
Harvest
Beyond the walled garden the meadow grass had been cut and turned until dry; now the voices of those piling it into haystacks drifted on the air.
Within the walls were other harvests. Lavender was cut and dried, marigolds too, rose petals gathered in baskets; all taken to the still room for future use.
The apple trees, young yet but planted to shade the next generation, had borne their first fruit.
Faramir watched his wife, big-bellied, move slowly as she organised this gathering; and pictured next year, under the apple trees, laying on sun dappled grass, their own first fruit.
Autumn
The days were shorter now; and stiff breezes stirred the leaves of the trees that grew beyond the garden, sending in occasional drifts of brown and gold trespassers.
Inside the shelter of the walls, leaves were also being shrugged off by apple trees, rose bushes, and others, as they began to ease towards winter sleep.
A lad cleared beds of exhausted annuals watched by Éowyn, sitting in the thatched shelter, her feet curled beneath her and a notebook in her hand. She was planning the groundwork for the future.
Remembering Ithilien autumns when he could see no future, Faramir smiled.
Winter
The winter sun showed ferns of frost that decorated the window panes and were echoed in the walled garden below, where those few leaves that remained were edged in white. The grass, too, was hoar-frosted and Faramir knew that, were he to walk across it, it would scrunch beneath his feet.
But the feet that crossed the whitened lawn were not his. Another, warmly cloaked, made her way to fill the seed bowl and break the ice to let the birds drink; bringing a smile to her husband’s face at the image of the White Lady in her white garden.
Mettarë
The walled garden slept. Snow lay over all like a great white eiderdown patterned with tiny bird-feet prints. The beds of plants, so colourful in summer, were just white shapes like pillows and bolsters arranged around the edge.
Someone had walked the well worn path to fill the birds’ bowl with seed and scraps of gingerbread so that they, too, could celebrate this midwinter feast.
Mettarë to Faramir; though the elves kept that name for the start of spring.
He looked at Éowyn, resting, clothed in her favourite dress.
‘Even at midwinter,’ he thought, ‘new life stirs beneath the white…’
New Life
Faramir paced around the walled garden; sheltered from the chill wind he could cover miles and yet remain near the house.
Snow patches still dappled the winter-faded grass and earth, but tiny green spikes showed signs of new life.
In the past, he thought, this would have been well into the first month; each day a little longer, the sun a little higher. But the King’s return untied the year’s beginning from time and season…
A sound, shrill, unfamiliar, interrupted Faramir’s reverie and he began to run, heart pounding, towards the house.
‘The babe is here! Our own new beginning!’
Spring
After that moment of new life the garden had continued to slumber. Then came spring and, as a breeze blew in through the open gate, all within seemed to shake itself and awake.
Small green nubs became swollen within days to unfurl new leaves; upthrust spikes developed colour ready to burst forth as flowers.
A gardener’s boy appeared, as if from hibernation, and stirred the beds whilst small birds stole straw from his barrow and fled, triumphant, to impress prospective mates.
In the window above, Faramir held up his son. “Look,” he said, “at the most beloved corner of Gondor!”
Full Circle
The air itself was indolent; heavy with the scent of summer flowers, too lazy to move, so that it sat over the garden like a warm blanket.
In the borders fat, pollen-laden, bees lumbered from blossom to blossom before they, too, became indolent and dozed in the heat.
Last year Faramir had watched Éowyn lying asleep on the grass, below the shading apple trees, and had imagined the scene that now greeted him. On a white blanket, amongst the tiny white and gold flowers, highlighted by golden light filtered through the leaves, his white lady watched over their golden son.
................
Disclaimer: The characters in this story do not belong to me, but are being used for amusement only, and all rights remain with the estate of JRR Tolkien.
Some of the pictures are mine, others are courtesy of fellow Flickr members Colin Sabin, Iakobos, Cy DeCosse & Gavin Wray.
This is a set where the theme was times of year - and we began them quite soon after I visited the walled garden at Baddesley Clinton with
gillo - which is where the inspiration came from.So;eight true drabbles, featuring Faramir, Éowyn, but starring the walled garden. Rated G. Oh - and with illustrations!
Summertime
The air itself was indolent; heavy with the scent of summer flowers, too lazy to move, so that it sat over the garden like a warm blanket.
In the borders fat, pollen-laden, bees lumbered from blossom to blossom before they, too, became indolent and dozed in the heat.
Faramir felt the thick, perfumed, air sink over him as soon as he stepped out of the stone coolness of the house. He fought off ennui just long enough to settle, like another somnolent bee, beside his preferred bloom where she slept on the grass midst other, smaller, gold and white flowers.
Harvest
Beyond the walled garden the meadow grass had been cut and turned until dry; now the voices of those piling it into haystacks drifted on the air.
Within the walls were other harvests. Lavender was cut and dried, marigolds too, rose petals gathered in baskets; all taken to the still room for future use.
The apple trees, young yet but planted to shade the next generation, had borne their first fruit.
Faramir watched his wife, big-bellied, move slowly as she organised this gathering; and pictured next year, under the apple trees, laying on sun dappled grass, their own first fruit.
Autumn
The days were shorter now; and stiff breezes stirred the leaves of the trees that grew beyond the garden, sending in occasional drifts of brown and gold trespassers.
Inside the shelter of the walls, leaves were also being shrugged off by apple trees, rose bushes, and others, as they began to ease towards winter sleep.
A lad cleared beds of exhausted annuals watched by Éowyn, sitting in the thatched shelter, her feet curled beneath her and a notebook in her hand. She was planning the groundwork for the future.
Remembering Ithilien autumns when he could see no future, Faramir smiled.
The winter sun showed ferns of frost that decorated the window panes and were echoed in the walled garden below, where those few leaves that remained were edged in white. The grass, too, was hoar-frosted and Faramir knew that, were he to walk across it, it would scrunch beneath his feet.
But the feet that crossed the whitened lawn were not his. Another, warmly cloaked, made her way to fill the seed bowl and break the ice to let the birds drink; bringing a smile to her husband’s face at the image of the White Lady in her white garden.
Mettarë
The walled garden slept. Snow lay over all like a great white eiderdown patterned with tiny bird-feet prints. The beds of plants, so colourful in summer, were just white shapes like pillows and bolsters arranged around the edge.
Someone had walked the well worn path to fill the birds’ bowl with seed and scraps of gingerbread so that they, too, could celebrate this midwinter feast.
Mettarë to Faramir; though the elves kept that name for the start of spring.
He looked at Éowyn, resting, clothed in her favourite dress.
‘Even at midwinter,’ he thought, ‘new life stirs beneath the white…’
New Life
Faramir paced around the walled garden; sheltered from the chill wind he could cover miles and yet remain near the house.
Snow patches still dappled the winter-faded grass and earth, but tiny green spikes showed signs of new life.
In the past, he thought, this would have been well into the first month; each day a little longer, the sun a little higher. But the King’s return untied the year’s beginning from time and season…
A sound, shrill, unfamiliar, interrupted Faramir’s reverie and he began to run, heart pounding, towards the house.
‘The babe is here! Our own new beginning!’
Spring
After that moment of new life the garden had continued to slumber. Then came spring and, as a breeze blew in through the open gate, all within seemed to shake itself and awake.
Small green nubs became swollen within days to unfurl new leaves; upthrust spikes developed colour ready to burst forth as flowers.
A gardener’s boy appeared, as if from hibernation, and stirred the beds whilst small birds stole straw from his barrow and fled, triumphant, to impress prospective mates.
In the window above, Faramir held up his son. “Look,” he said, “at the most beloved corner of Gondor!”
Full Circle
The air itself was indolent; heavy with the scent of summer flowers, too lazy to move, so that it sat over the garden like a warm blanket.
In the borders fat, pollen-laden, bees lumbered from blossom to blossom before they, too, became indolent and dozed in the heat.
Last year Faramir had watched Éowyn lying asleep on the grass, below the shading apple trees, and had imagined the scene that now greeted him. On a white blanket, amongst the tiny white and gold flowers, highlighted by golden light filtered through the leaves, his white lady watched over their golden son.
................
Disclaimer: The characters in this story do not belong to me, but are being used for amusement only, and all rights remain with the estate of JRR Tolkien.
Some of the pictures are mine, others are courtesy of fellow Flickr members Colin Sabin, Iakobos, Cy DeCosse & Gavin Wray.