The Quiet Power of Native Flowers
An ode to their beauty, resilience, and role in biodiversity.
I watch the land exhale under the weight of summer. The soil, baked into something closer to pottery than earth, cracks underfoot.
The goats move slower, conserving energy in the heat, and the air shimmers in that way it does just before a storm teases the horizon, full of promises it won’t keep.
But me? I’m already thinking about winter.
Winter means rain. Rain means planting. And planting mean flowers.
Not just any flowers—the tough, unshakable, brilliantly defiant native flowers. The ones that don’t need coddling, that thrive in the dry and the dust, that hum quietly in the background while flashier, imported species demand all the attention. I’ve fallen hard for them, head over dusty boots. They are the underdogs of the plant world, and I am here for
Not in a casual, admiring-from-afar way, but in a full-blown, heart-thumping obsession.
The kind where I spend one morning a week at a native nursery, volunteering under the watchful (and slightly amused) eye of a man who knows more about these plants than I will ever know. “Learn one flower a week,” he tells me. “By the end of the year, you’ll know 52” (attempting anything more ambitious might send me into a botanical tailspin). There are thousands. Each one carrying a latin name I roll around in my mouth like a new song, each one designed by nature to feed, shelter, and sustain.
Why this obsession? Because native flowers aren’t just beautiful—they’re essential. They are the lifeblood of South Australia’s ecosystems, especially in dry regions like mine. These plants have evolved over millennia to thrive in harsh conditions, supporting an intricate web of life. Take the critically endangered Regent Honeyeater—this stunning little bird depends on nectar-rich native flowers like the Eucalyptus and the Silver Banksia. Without them, these birds struggle to find food, their populations dwindle, and we lose a vital pollinator in our ecosystem. Remove one link in the chain, and the whole system weakens.
Without them, there are fewer insects. Without insects, fewer birds, fewer small animals. Much less life.
So this year, I’m going all in.
That’s why I’m dedicating space on my farm to growing threatened native flowers—not just for the joy of seeing them bloom, but to collect their seeds, grow more, and distribute them to rewilding initatives. Every flower planted will also add diversity to my land, creating a richer, more resilient habitat.
I want to see the pink of the Monarto Mintbush plant needling up through the dust, the striking purple of the Southern swainson-pea bending in the wind.
And I know what you’re thinking. “Mate, they’re just flowers.” But they are not. They are the difference between a landscape that functions and one that fades away. It’s watching a butterfly hover over the right plant, knowing it has what it needs to survive. It’s spotting a blue tongue lizard nosing through the undergrowth, safe in a tangle of native grasses. It’s seeing the return of species we thought had gone.
It’s active hope, in the form of petals and seeds.
And so I wait for winter. For the cool air and the smell of damp earth. For the moment I press a seed into the soil and whisper, “Alright, my friend. Let’s get you home.”
That’s the dream.
And it starts with a seed.
