I love my folks' garden. Mum always complains how it isn't neat enough, often getting near to tears in the depths of her disgrace. Stepfather is torn limb from virtual limb for his capital crimes of digging up non-weeds, poor raking, or buying plants from the wrong shop.
The pond that once homed newts and toads sits reproachfully. Due attention is promised.
The truth is, however, that their little garden is a slighty untidy nature paradise. In a few weeks, it will be buzzing, fluttering (although not too many butterflies last year) and tweeting. Blackbirds nest in the pergola; great tits in the outhouse. Tree bumblebees swarm about the ceonothus, and the robin sits upon the garden bench, watching stepfather dig and waiting for goodies to be upturned by the dull blade.
Until then, making the most of what the flashes of colour out there, amid the chill, calm feeling at this time of year.
|Cunning iris fools the crocus spotter, library park|
|Fine tall snowdrops, these|
|These primroses have been permanently in flower for a year, it seems|
|Cloud trees and the bramley|
|Camellia has also had a flowery sort of winter|
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