With romantic visions of New Orleans homesteads in my mind, I bought a few bunches of Spanish Moss some months ago. I did some reading on growing and care, hung them in the trees and besides watering them when I remembered, just left them to their own devices.
Last night, as I stood at our supper fire, I noticed the faintest wisp of a sweet fragrance and turned around.
No-one said anything about flowers!
And yet, there they are - small as match heads,
a lovely shade of lime green.
Of course it's not really moss, but a member of the Bromeliad family and a distant cousin of the pineapple.
I have read that they will bloom for months now and that seedpods will form, with hairy seeds that will be lifted by air currents and hopefully settle in cracks in tree bark and other hospitable places.
At the beginning of spring, the weaver birds plucked tufts from the tresses to line their nests. I have since read that the plants harbour wildlife such as bees, butterflies and moths, and in other climes even bats and small birds.
Nature continues to leave me dumbstruck.
We had a storm last night. In the front garden, the rock rose is wet and crumpled, the lawn is covered in petals. A cure for terror, they say, although each flower lasts only one day.
