“The Frost performs its secret ministry,

Unhelped by any wind…”

Frost at Midnight

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

The crescent moon shone steadily brighter as the setting sun sank with golden glow, beneath grey clouds, reflected in the darkening sea below. Midnight sky, punctuated with myriad stars twinkling in night’s dark canopy. Pale morning sun washing the world pink and silver, frosted morn, white lawn, crisp beneath our feet, leaf litter works of art. No wind to stir the fallen leaves, soft raysΒ fill the garden with welcome warmth and light. Time to gather tools and begin the task of clearing away the winter debris. Beneath the sodden leaves and twigs, in silent solitude green shoots are springing. Not only plant life but bug-life too as tattered buds greet the air. Tidying, weeding, unearthing, cold fingers, cold toes, aching limbs; delighted to be in the garden working. Listening to the birdsong, watching the rooks gather twigs, smaller birds establishing territories. Singing, springing garden full of hope and promise, chiding my inattention. Turning mindfully to gather up the autumn- winter debris…

Looks like another day in the garden is beckoning, thanks for stopping by today