When I came here the place had a mix of native grasses I was determined to look after as best I could. Among other things, I let them flower each year, which means letting them grow to full height—some years, waist-high—and cutting them only once they've flowered, if not seeded.
This is red kangaroo grass and as you can see, it's very beautiful.
That's Beelzebub in the background. The goats love the native grasses. They eat the flower and seed heads first, then complain that there are only stalks left.
Long grass harbours snakes and is an enormous fire hazard. I always make sure I have it mown by new year. But in the meantime, it feels a great indulgence to let the grass grow wild.
One of my favourite books is Capote's The Grass Harp, and it's true: the grasses make a lovely sound when the wind hits them. Among their nodding heads insects and small birds scavenge; their stalks gather in ribboned explosions of purple and blue.
To lie among the grasses on a hot day is heaven. The grass forms a cradle, a rustling screen above which stretches your very own piece of sky. Sun, pollen dust, and that green, green perfume: these are the makings of summer.