Tag Archives: tendrils

10th October 2013 – front yard

Posted on October 11, 2013 by Liz Terry

The metal gate squeaks open, scraping on concrete, coming to a springy rest against the unruly hedge. Reaching tendrils stretch across the path, ready to grab any visitors and deposit fluffy seeds on jacket arms. Nature out-performs us, a hostile … Continue reading →

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26th September 2013 – old man’s beard

Posted on September 27, 2013 by Liz Terry

Feathery tendrils gently cup the nut-brown seeds. The bearded remnants of summer fruits, filling the hedgerow with their snowy whiteness. Soon, they will fly off to find more fertile ground, ready to spring up renewed.

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7th September 2013 – blue rocket

Posted on September 8, 2013 by Liz Terry

Heart-shaped leaves and spindly tendrils have taken over. They spread themselves up the wall and around the window like an invading force. At intervals, blue flower spikes shoot out, firework-like against the green.

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4th September 2013 – morning mist

Posted on September 5, 2013 by Liz Terry

It hangs like snow which cannot fall. In drifts, it floats around the houses, obscures the hills behind. The sun attempts to shine, but its smoky tendrils hold her fast.

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