One of the most spectacular blossoms this year was the jasmine – all three of our varieties were splendid stars, the slightly more established ‘Fiona Sunrise’ yielding quite a bit more of its little lunar flowers than the newer plants. I was surprised at how magnificently these exotic flowers flourished in England, but it seemed these varieties were really in agreement with British weather, their softly curled, white-as-cloud petals longing for rain, as though another crystal drop might add another number to their ethereal abundance.
On each of the few occasions that intense summer days resulted in silver-streaked nights of exhilarating thunderstorms, the next morning would bare perhaps a dozen fresh jasmines, dripping with the dews of the passionate night. You become filled with wonder at how such delicate white flowers could erupt so. The jasmine plant, unable to contain its longing for the fertile secretions issuing wildly from the hole that is mysterious night sky, manifests into countless miniature versions of the musky moon, stroked tenderly by the Earth with a sweet perfume unavailable in the rest of the cosmos.
The fresh dawn-gold finds the luminous flowers wet with the loving rain that quenched them crazily, the quartz clarity of the drops amplifying the white purity of the petals. In the warming heart of the morning, an enchanting scent of pheremonic power is released from the divinely delicate flowers as the generous moisture evaporates and again returns heavenwards.