The day begins.

Paper Magic.

The child alone.

The child alone a poet is:

Spring and Fairyland are his.

Truth and Reason show but dim

And all's poetry with him.

-Robert Graves.

The greatest things in life.

We do not fight.

"We cannot win this battle to save species and environment,

Without forging an emotional bond between ourselves and nature as well....

For we do not fight to save what we do not love." Steven Jay Gould.

Ordinary Life.

This was a day when nothing happened,
the children went off to school
without a murmur, remembering
their books, lunches, gloves.
All morning, the baby and I built block stacks
in the squares of light on the floor.
And lunch blended into naptime,
I cleaned out kitchen cupboards,
one of those jobs that never gets done,
then sat in a circle of sunlight
and drank ginger tea,
watched the birds at the feeder
jostle over lunch's little scraps.
A pheasant strutted from the hedgerow,
preened and flashed his jeweled head.
Now a chicken roasts in the pan,
and the children return,
the murmur of their stories dappling the air.
I peel carrots and potatoes without paring my thumb.
We listen together for your wheels on the drive.
Grace before bread.
And at the table, actual conversation,
no bickering or pokes.
And then, the drift into homework.
The baby goes to his cars, drives them
along the sofa's ridges and hills.
Leaning by the counter, we steal a long slow kiss,
tasting of coffee and cream.
The chicken's diminished to skin & skeleton,
the moon to a comma, a sliver of white,
but this has been a day of grace
in the dead of winter,
the hard cold knuckle of the year,
a day that unwrapped itself
like an unexpected gift,
and the stars turn on,
order themselves
into the winter night.
-Barbara Crooker.

Memories of Summer.

Almost everyday we wake to grey skies and endless  rain. In the gloom the damp hangs in the air, and clings to everything. The lawn is absolutely sodden as are the pots I left out on the patio containing my precious lilly bulbs to rest over the Winter months. Summer is a long forgotten memory, so here are some pictures to lift my spirits and remind me of warm sunny days and blue skies!

A walk by the lake......

or the Abbey ruins......

...or just smelling the roses!

Dream Garden

Snowdrop Watch.

Out walking under leaden skies, the cold nipping at my fingers, I search the hedgerows and the woods eagerly for the first signs of Spring. 
We mark the change of season boldly, as if we can tether it, hold it here securely to give us hope for renewal and growth. But nature's Spring is far more subtle. Her change is quiet-hidden beneath the tangle of faded stems, softly peeking from beneath past layers of leaves, the hidden treasure is spotted, the first Snowdrops! These beautiful little flowers with their sense of wounded gentleness, are a simple gift looking truly magical against the stark backdrop of the sleeping woodland.

Here is the wonderful poem Snowdrop by Alice Oswald:

A pale and pining girl, head bowed, heart gnawed,

Who's figure nods and shivers in a shawl

Of fine white wool, has suddenly appeared

In the damp woods, as mild and mute as snowfall.

She may not last, she has no strength at all,

But stoops and shakes as if she'd stood all night 

On one bare foot, confiding with the moonlight.

One among several hundred clear-eyed ghosts

Who get up in the cold and blink and turn

Into these trembling emblems of night frosts...

-Alice Oswald.