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The Garden In Winter

Christine Sturridge

The garden in winter

13.43 – 13.53

In the blink of an eye, a flash of red
A hasty nod of the head as he collects bark
For his nest. In the undersong an avian orchestra
Tuning up for the spring dawn chorus performance
Later. I think of tweets and twittering
280 characters only perm [end of tweet] itted I understand
But here I welcome more.
I hear a rustling behind the cherry stump –
Ha, his secret home discovered as
I also spy the pointed hats of the wild tulips
Camouflaged in the earth pushing up through like moles
Wary of the sun.
A waterfall of catkins dripping from
Hazel branches filters
The air carrying urban sounds
Of play, of flight, of life moving forward.
I watch as a slight breeze ripples
Across the pond out of the corner of my eye
A spray of water and feathers
Our secretive cave dweller.

13.28 -13.38

Ripples rather than wavelets on the pond today.
Light reflections a spirited dance as
The sun is out.
A golden glow warms my view
Relaxing tiny facial muscles
As each day the shadows retreat within
and without.
Pastel blue above an expansiveness knitted together
Printed wi [end of tweet] th sinewy branches like tributaries
Of a meandering stream whilst the hazel’s
Golden tassels dangling, now a lion’s mane
Shaking its head tall and proud
Resounding a silent roar.
Instead I hear the robin, the blue tit
And goldfinches excited and expectant
Twittering natters.


An opaque veil shrouded the park view
This morning gently tumbling over the fence
It seems to capture the blended scent of decay
And growth in each tiny moist droplet.
The pond is still but earth pigments have absorbed
The colour from refracted light
Excess moisture revea [end of tweet] ling velvety tones as rich as
daubs of oil paints.
It’s a lush winter rainforest.
Sounds are more audible
As the water drips from nearby bushes
And birdsong filters through the gauze
My pencil graphite begins to convey
Hieroglyphic marks: creating a visual tune?

8.47 – 8.57

Old man winter visited the garden last night
His ancient hands rubbing a dusting
Of frosted glitter all around.
No movement on the pond but a
Thin clingfilm of ice skimming the surface.
The soundscape transformed as birds call
Amplified against muffled mutterings.
This mor [end of tweet] ning tawny catkins like tally marks
Tinkling and counting the days until spring.
My awareness is ripening in tune
With the changing shades and textures
That wrap around me staining my skin
Opening my eyes from seasonal hibernation.

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