Summer’s been dismantled. Packed away. The plot is hunkering down nearer the ground. Kala’s garden, too, has been half-cleared, now sitting in jugs and drying on shelves. Huge heads of sunflowers, seeds to be shared with friends and family.
I have left the sweet pea structures on the plot, though the flowers are long gone. Two have been colonised by nasturtiums, tendrils reaching hungrily out as though to snare passers-by. The last wigwam is now webbed by an iridescent morning glory, its seed sent to me by a reader. New to me, I will grow them again every year, purple as Prince.
Rain has hammered the amaranth, half now lying, languid, as though exhausted by the weight of its seed. The tall banks of tagetes ildkongen are diminished, too. Almost waiting for frost to finish them. A few dry days and winter sun may hold back the decline. I will leave it as late as I can before saving precious seed.
The last sunflowers, felled like redwood, have crashed through the bank. The largest, once over twice my height, is stripped. Soon enough the plot will be only as tall as the puntarelle. Its energy returning again to the soil.
We cover over more kale and I head to Kala’s garden. Her nasturtiums have near colonised the grass and are making a break for freedom over the fence. Here, too, her sunflowers have succumbed. It’s near the end of her gardening year. I help and watch as she works, tidying away for winter.
I will miss seeing her out deadheading, screaming about insects and snails as she ties her jasmine in, dwarfed by flowers. It makes me happy to see her gardening strengthen every year. Now if I could persuade her to help mulch the allotment…
Allan Jenkins’s Morning (4th Estate, £8.99) is out now. Order it for £7.91 from guardianbookshop.com
