I – Fresh hope and new growth.
There’s an air of expectation in the garden, as it waits for the warmer weather and strengthening sun the spring will bring. The spiky shoots and bulbous buds foretell of carpets of colour ready to be revealed.
Acrobatic antics of tiny tits,
up-tailed wee wren between bare branches flits.
White snowdrops drip in the shade of the Scots pine, and dwarf daffodil heads hang down as if drawing breath to blow their yellow trumpets. Purple crocuses prepare to poke out tangerine tongues, while the blue violas which have survived the snow and slugs, the frosts and foraging beaks of the birds, lift their faces up to the light.
Bright red robin bobbing and nodding its head,
dappled dunnock darts between tubs for bread.
Spidery witch-hazel flowers glow golden still, like a bush of stranded sea anemones on branches of coral. While the perfumed pink laburnum blooms are starting to lose the battle, to hungry birds and unfurling leaves.
Squabbling sparrows fail to hide in the hedge,
squawking starlings comb the grass in a wedge.
At ground level all lush green growth is soon snaffled up, by the munch bunch of slithering slugs and snails, as evidenced by their silvery trails. The compost bin is a writhing mass of wriggling worms, in red tangles of live spaghetti.
Sleek blackbirds pass in a low profile dash,
clever crows make off with a three nut cache.
Against the scenic backdrop, the stars of the show are the feathered friends who gather each morning to greet me, or maybe the seeds and peanuts I provide. A chorus of calls and flurrying flights, as they defend their claims or seek out dames, it’s not always easy to work out which.
Lovey doveys side by side on the bush,
pesky pigeons trample all into mush.
II – A change of weather can greatly alter perception of the same scene.
Skeletal white frame of the silver birch stands sentinel under an overcast sky of grey, flanked by the stumps of hawthorn and cherry that didn’t survive the winter. On the hedges the foliage hangs forlorn, blackened with mould.
Bare branches, limp leaves.
Nests lie empty and the archway is festooned with dirty and torn spider webs. Faded brown leaves crisp and curled, stick stiffly to bonsai beech and oak trees.
Fledglings flown, old husks.
Last year’s leaf litter clogs the small stream and ponds, the water dark and cold. Fog drips from the trees, and pools on the mud below.
Stagnant stream, damp drops.
Remnant stems of plants poke up in the sleeping beds and borders, eaten by slugs and snails then trampled underfoot by ponderous pigeons.
Stripped stalks, slug slime.
