persimmon tree

We have these giant persimmons in our garden. I don’t know their age, I don’t know who planted them. I know that they are glorious.

We don’t get many fruits from them each year. The possums get some, but the trees don’t actually bare many fruits. Perhaps they’re too old, or don’t get enough sunlight throughout the year - we live under a hill on the wrong side of the winter sun.

These are two trees side by side; one smaller and one larger and older. A mother and child perhaps. They show to way that each microcosm of space is it’s own eco-system. Even though they’re growing this close to each other, the little one loses it’s leaves earlier in autumn, and cloaks itself in the green of spring earlier.

What these trees give is a glorious autumn and winter glow. The later afternoon sun shimmers through, golden. The ground underneath is carpeted with the orange, green, brown hues. In deep of winter the bare branches, stark against the sky and the other trees. In spring the freshest of new growth - pale and crisp and clean.

I’ve been taking a photo of these trees randomly over the past few weeks. No set time, or spot I stand. Just whenever I’m out there, with my device in hand, and a moment to watch. Get my feet wet in the all-day dew of our mossy garden. None of them are spectacular photos at all, but that’s ok. Sometimes things can just be.