Miscanthus

Miscanthus sinensis 'Morning Light' earns its name every single day. The narrow leaves have fine white margins that, from a distance, make the entire plant appear silvery — a shimmering, luminous column of pale green and silver that catches every passing breeze. When the morning sun hits it, the white leaf edges glow, and the whole grass seems to be wrapped in light. It's one of those names that isn't marketing — it's description.

It forms a tall, upright, vase-shaped clump — five to six feet by late summer — that's architecturally perfect. Narrow at the base, widening at the top, the leaves arching outward like the spray of a fountain. In autumn, silky, pinkish flower plumes emerge above the foliage, catching the low October sun and turning the whole plant into a beacon of warm light. The plumes fade to silver and persist through winter, when they catch frost and look like something from a Japanese woodblock print.

I grow it as a specimen — a single clump at the corner of the terrace where it catches the afternoon sun. Backlit, it's transcendent. The silvery leaves become translucent, the flower plumes glow, and on a still autumn evening the whole plant seems to be made of light rather than matter. It's one of those garden effects that makes visitors fall silent, which is the highest compliment.

In winter, I leave the stems standing. A miscanthus in January, frosted and straw-coloured, the plumes still intact, is a structural presence that gives the sleeping garden a skeleton. The dried stems rattle in the wind — a papery, rushing sound that's the voice of winter. I cut them back hard in March, just as the new growth begins to push through, and the whole cycle starts again. A plant for all twelve months.