It rained the last two nights.
Life and death are mostly incomprehensible, though we often try to convince ourselves otherwise.
The rubble bank is exactly that: a peculiar, linear, broken brick and excavated, relocated dirt mound at the top of our garden.
The clocks had already circled backwards when I took shelter in the passageway beside the second hand book shop.
In the pursuit of pretty, there are two kinds of gardener who wilfully apportion several weekend evening hours to hosing down their lawn, in a heavy storm, on the darker side of dusk.
The garden as we first viewed it, in the estate agent’s particulars, had two obvious and immediate selling points: its wide open size and its impressive woodland backdrop.
Personal narratives are something we all construct, even if we choose not to share them.
It’s approaching three months since I last wrote anything in my gardening journal. Since I last wrote anything at all.
The novelty of alliteration, discovered in childhood (a time that often seems like a million years ago to me now) never really faded.
The birches arrived a few weeks ago: two Betula albosinensis ‘Fascinations’ and two Betula utilis ‘Jacquemontiis’.