That's why we chose to grow them.
Stunning in every season.
The wind has had it's way with dried out stems.
They still sway, taller than me.
Empty cells creak in the breeze.
Fallen branches crack into papery sticks.
Disappointing when dipped into ink.
Dry as polished wood.
Brittle as thorn edge.
Last Summer's flower heads start to fall to earth.
Worn out confetti.
Fading into monochrome.
The ground has sucked back the colours.
Gorged on the silvery greens.
Drunk that purple blue bee heaven.
Hoards them in the dark.
We pause to look.
Another kind of beautiful.
I also wrote a piece about cardoons way way back in the early days of Inkhaven. You can read the piece here. And if you do read it and wonder who Spot is, it was my aka name!