‘Not so fast,’ the Miscanthus seemed to say to me as soon as I wrote this ghostly post.
‘I’ll show you,’ the sky-high patch of fountain grass whispered as its reeds took the wind.
I was cowed, beat down by the impossibly-bright bonfire before an impossibly-blue sky.
You cannot fight fire with fire.
It hadn’t even bothered to unfurls its feathery seedheads yet.
It was merely flexing.
This was still the staging area.
What winter glory was yet to come…
