(photo: botanical garden, Nelson, summer 2023) of plenty and dense light fruit weighs on the branches summer is flowing in the sunday gardens
Archives par mot-clé : fruit
Since March 2020, it has been almost impossible to get out of New Zealand, so I have spent four seasons in Nelson, which is something that hasn't happened for some time. It has given me the opportunity to go around the neighbourhood in every season and made me realize the extent of nature's bounty (and that of my neighbours) in this part of the world. “Urban foraging” consists quite simply in picking what grows in cities, while respecting the etiquette, of course, that is to say, by not taking what does not belong to you, but picking what grows on public lands and, in Nelson's case, what neighbours have to give you. I started doing it out of curiosity at first. Every day there were feijoas at one of my neighbours' door and one day just felt like tasting them and picked a few. I added them to my morning smoothies and quickly got used to it. Later, around June,lemons started popping up, then granny smith apples, rosemary, plums, grapefruit, pears, and more. So much so that I can sometimes go for weeks without buying a single fruit. Not all neighbours share their harvest. I wish a neighbour with an avocado tree that produced hundreds of fruits had shared his harvest, but he seems to have eaten them all. I saw nectarines and peaches in a few gardens, but these fruits did not end up in my basket, nor the figs, moreover, well protected by nets, officially to prevent birds from eating them, but maybe - also to prevent neighbours from helping themselves in passing. Regardless, this new activity has enriched my morning walks and made me appreciate Nelson's climate.
de temps en temps
on parlerait entre les lignes, de petits mots de temps en temps, des sons qui marqueraient le pas, puis du silence plein les oreilles, en descendant de la colline, on se rapellerait le bon vieux temps.
A few drops of rain
autumn now on the apples
a kind of sadness
Des gouttes de pluie
l’automne maintenant sur les pommes
une sorte de tristesse