WHERE THE GARDEN HOLDS ITS BREATH | SPRING - NOVEMBER | 63 GUESTS | THE GOVERNORS LAWN
Beneath the reaching arms of Gabbinbar's ancient fig, Morgan and Aimee exchanged their vows on a morning so still the foxgloves barely stirred. Acrylic pedestals rose from the lawn like glass pillars, crowned with yellow garden roses and blush peonies trailing into the grass. At each crossback chair, a length of powder blue ribbon caught the breeze. Come dusk, the long tables bore their own quiet poetry — bud vases, tambourines tied with silk at every place, and tapered peach candles burning into the evening. A dip kiss on the aisle, a swing beneath fairy-lit branches, and finally, two silhouettes walking hand in hand toward the lit verandah of the homestead — unhurried, and entirely their own.
