Day 300: Perhaps they aren't as unstructured as a traditional English garden, but my flowerbeds are nevertheless a themeless riot of hues and growth habits. I grow "for pretty," with no particular mind to borders and backgrounds, not objecting to those things which reseed with wanton abandon, totally happy when a solitary yellow snapdragon pops up amid the cosmos or nasturtiums creep out on the far side of the hellebore. This is my "colour garden," the morning-sun bed which often may sprout the occasional sunflower, courtesy of the careless eaters in the bird feeders nearby. I love the little surprises each growing season brings: Nigella over here, a Gazania which survived the winter, a pop of blue Lobelia from a seed a decade dormant. Nature knows no truly straight lines, and neither should a garden be anything other than a crazy-quilt in my conception, its floral patchwork calling to memory the dearest fabrics of bygone years.
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