THE minor early-19th-century poet Thomas Hood is best known for writing ‘I remember, I remember, the house where I was born’, listing roses, violets, lilac and lilies. Less well known is his gloomy November poem, which begins:
No sun—no moon!
No morn—no noon—
No dawn—no dusk—no proper time of day.
And ends
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds!—
November!
I can’t share his pessimism. I enjoy the slow collapse of what is now a tousled tangle of brownery, because I know the garden. As the bright flowers fade, the green bones emerge. The background shrubs, veiled all summer by brilliant companions, have once again come into their own. And green is a wonderful colour to see us through winter.
