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.
A lone reflection for sorrow A life-long mate brings mirth Fledgling foretells a funeral Charming broods a live birth
Radial rhythm – Taps seed to feed agouti Whiskers, fingers twitch.
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.