Third Winter, first snow.
A jackdaw is pecking at buggy nibbles beneath the slim outstretched arm of an oak tree whose trunk is obscured by dark holly.
Here you saw the sweet azure of bluebells…
In the ground and in pots, sunshiny daffodils succeeded the cool blues, whites and crisp yellows of stalwart Winter bulbs.
I ambled idly on the mound That hosted snowflakes, drops and squills,
Blurry birds… A female crest and two pairs of finches.
It rained the last two nights.
An eggless raspberry bellied bake Twitcher fuel – Kitchen-side of the glass
Pumpkats – Rattertats! Hatterchats? Soupcats!
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.