My apartment is feeling pretty lush right now with the weekend addition of a meyer lemon tree. It sits in the window in front of my desk and the scent wafts towards me as I write. I also hope to get a lime tree to keep it company. They're supposed to bear fruit, which seems like an impossible miracle to me right now.
My parents have all manner of fruit in their garden; loganberries, boysenberries, raspberries, rhubarb, apples, strawberries, blackcurrants, blackberries and gooseberries. So, you'd think I'd be quite au fait with fruit trees, but somehow my lemon tree has made me feel a childlike wonder at the prospect of harvesting friot. And it got me missing Mum and Dad's back garden in all its unruliness.
I used to hate that it was so wild and unwieldy. But last time I was home, I loved the mossy stones and knotty mass of clematis, the rusty old wheelbarrow and the compost heap that doubled as a safe haven for some pheasant. I pulled out these very old negatives for a second look. I never printed these pictures when I had a darkroom at my fingertips. I regret that now.
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