A giant rainbow sliced through heavy clouds of anthracite yesterday; I was in Melbourne and I swear the pot of gold was resting in my garden in the hills. Like Magi we followed it home; like the myths, a present of gold had arrived. Midas has worked his alchemy on all the silver wattles (named for the gray leaves) in the foothills; they have exploded – early - in brightest lemon after unremarkable weather, not unseasonably warm.  Some wattles have flowers of pure gold in true Olympian spirit; underneath the guinea-gold of King Alfred daffodils, heads nodding in the gusts of wind, contrast with the surrounding winter green of the season. Across the valley from our cottage the forest trees are suddenly interspersed with tall wattles of bright yellow; they surprise me each year. But it’s early August! And the meteorologists are telling us that we are not having a particularly cold winter but rather a normal cold one, compared to last year’s warmer winter. Nevertheless, the wattles are very early; like other wildflowers; it’s a concern.