The sun is bright, not very high yet, and a sparrow is chirruping. The wind is moving noisily through the laburnum tree, which still holds most of its leaves. The mullein flowers are waving in the wind, lit by the sun. This is their second flush. Earlier in the year they stood up tall, dwarfing and hiding the bird table. The flowers now are borne on side shoots, the original tall stems having fallen over to a position almost parallel to the ground. The flowers are yellow and bright, and a few late bees are gathering nectar.

Among these fallen mulleins are two plants of a different type. They are also mulleins, but when they were younger they had silver leaves. Now they are dark brown and decaying but they continue to stand upright like guardians either side of the path. One of them, the western one, always had a kink in the flower spike near the top. The kink is still there, but a little further up it bends, almost at right angles. It is not a general weakness. It is a deliberate reach, a deliberate turn. Over there, it seems to say, is where I want to go. And then the intention falters. The very tip turns down, gives up, is shy. The other guardian has a few side shoots, all brown with decay and on this one the very top turns in a curve to look down. They are sturdy, both of them, rocking in the wind. A stronger wind will break them. They have completed their cycle. They have made their silver spiral of leaves, they have sent up their flower spikes, they have set seed. Their offspring will continue the journey. Behind them the other ones continue to paint the garden yellow and feed a few bees. They show no sign of giving up. They will continue to flower until the first frost, and maybe beyond.

The sun goes behind a cloud and the flowers retain their colour, their brightness. Jackdaws call to each other. A van reverses somewhere, beeping its warning. A door closes.